Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair--
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air
That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought--
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent),
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn--
Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn.
December 17, 1813.