You ask me who the maid I love,
And think you I’ll her name reveal,
Whom true affection bids me prove
From you most anxious to conceal.
Yet here her faithful portrait view;
Nor think the painter lent it grace,
For flattery here would vainly try,
T’enhance her mien, her form, her face.
Fair as the mountain’s drifted snows,
And ah! to my true love as cold;
Yet blushing like the vermil rose,
When first its fragrant leaves unfold.
Mild as the Zephyrs vernal sigh;
And gentle as the tender dove,
Gay as the lark that sing on high;
When Sol’s first radiance tips the grove.
Artless as yon silver tide,
Which as its crystal waters flow,
By every curious eye descried,
Reveals the sparkling sand below.
Such is my love — her eye of blue,
Bright as the diamond’s lucid ray;
Now shines with “Pity’s pearly dew,”
Now like the changing opal gay.
And is she then not yet betray’d,
By modesty concealed alone —
For all but you, too lovely Maid,
Had for yourself the picture known.