Matchless forms in shape and size!
Nearer now the strain is heard—
Starts she, like a frightened bird;
’Tis for her the song is sung,
And for her, across the sea,
Waves the signal merrily,
From her lover’s pinnace flung!
’Tis the hour, the promised hour,
She should leave her maiden bower.
. . . . . . . .