And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,--The sportive toil, which, short and light Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace,--A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue,---Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear!
