O Lady fair, whose honoured name doth grace
Green vale and noble ford of Rheno’s stream--
Of all worth void the man I surely deem
Whom thy fair soul enamoureth not apace,
When softly self-revealed to time and space
By actions sweet with which thy will doth teem,
And fair gifts that Love’s bow and arrows seem--
But are the flowers that crown thy perfect race.
When thou dost lightsome talk or gladsome sing,--
A power to draw the hill-trees, rooted hard--
The doors of eyes and ears let that man keep
Who knows himself unworthy thy regard!
Grace from above alone him help can bring
That Passion in his heart strike not too deep.