Her bright haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive shaded steep,
On India's citron covered isles:
Now remote and buxom brown,
The queen of vintage bowed before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,