I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.
When I would paint thee, as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart,—
The graceful child, in beauty's dawn,
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out,—like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.