I trembled with transport and awe,
Afraid to offend the sweet maid.
No language her charms could unfold,
No pencil her beauties display,
Her hair hung like ringlets of gold,
Her eye was the di’mond’s bright ray;
Her bosom the lily out-vy’d,
Her lips which I panted to view,
In the blush of the rose-bud were dy’d,
And her fingers all glitter’d with dew.