Which so o’ershadowed her white bosom bare.
The spot on which her pearly sandals stay’d,
Was that green islet, that might well be made
Shrine for her footsteps: but I may not tell
Of half the loveliness that lent its aid
To that enchanting wilderness of shade,
Of parted rock o’erhanging a sweet dell:
Meet home for elfin sprites that nightly sing,
And woo the stars to their enchanted ring.
Swift to this place, the margin’s pride she passed,