Beamed her liquid, tender eye;
But within her bearing queenly,
Deepest passion slept serenely
As the flame in summer’s sky,
Which to fiercest being wakens, when we dream it least is nigh!
She had grown, in soul and beauty,
Like her own delicious clime—
With the warmth and radiance showered
On its gardens, citron-bowered,
And its winds that woo in rhyme: