With an eye whose light is the first star of even,
When it streameth afar through the sky’s red rift,
The only and loveliest thing in heaven;—
Ye with a cheek like the marble fair,
Ye with a lip like the bright summer dew,
Ye with a softness and loveliness there
That Fancy never drew;—
Whose hands and whose hearts have been ever lent,
As spirits of mercy from Heaven sent:—
Ye have the pure heart—come to me!