Dispute the empire of the field;
They wave their cudgels high in air,
"Now yield thee, noble Baron yield."
"Unmanner'd vagabonds! in vain
You strive to mar our nightly game;
Come on! come on! my merry men,
The raggamuffins we can tame."
In heaps the victims bite the dust,
Down sinks Earl Walter on the ground,
Now run who can, and lie who must,
For loud the _watchmen's rattles_ sound.
Now to the justice borne along,
In sullen majesty they go;
The place receives the motley throng,
And echoes to their hollo ho!
All mild amid the rout profane,
The _justice_ solemn thus began:
"Forebear your knighthood thus to stain,
Revere the dignity of man.
The meanest trull has rights to plead,
Which wrong'd by cruelty or pride,
Draw vengeance on thy guilty head,
Howe'er by titles dignified."
Cold drops of sweat in many a trill,
Adown Earl Walter's temples fall,
And louder, louder, louder still,
The surly watch for vengeance call.
The right-hand stranger anxious pleads;
The clamours of the mob increase,
The _riot act_ the justice reads,
And binds the Earl to keep the peace.
The court broke up, they sally out,
And raise a loud, a last huzza;
Then sneak'd away and hung his snout,
Each disappointed dog of law.
Muttering full many a curse, and fast
Homeward to slumber now they go;
Yet spite of all that now has passed,
You'll hear next night their hollo ho!
This is the Earl, and this his train,
That oft the awaken'd _Cockney_ hears;
With rage he glows in every vein
When the wild din invades his ears.
The dreaming maid sighs sad and oft,
That she her visions must forego,
When waken'd from her slumbers soft,
She hears the cry of hollo ho!
_Port Folio_, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807, Phila.
[Parody on G. A. Buerger's poem _Der wilde Jaeger_. Cf. pp. 34, 85.]
THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.
By JAMES MONTGOMERY.
_Emerald_, II-108, Feb. 28, 1807, Boston.
[James Montgomery, _op. cit._ Extracts given. Cf. Preface.]
SWISS PEASANT.
Turn we, to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display;
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread,
Yet still, e'en here, Content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut his feast though small,
He sees his little lot, the lot of all;
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carrols as he goes.
At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of his shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys,
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on her board;
And haply too, some pilgrim, hither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
_Emerald_, II-119, Mar. 7, 1807, Boston.
RUNIC ODE.
THE HAUNTING OF HAVARDUR.
By C. LEFTLY, Esq.
_Balance and Columbian Repos._, VI-144, May 5, 1807, Hudson, N. Y.
[Also in _Port Folio_, II-415, Dec. 31, 1806, Phila.]
FOREIGN POETICAL, POLITICAL SUMMARY.
PRUSSIA.
* * * * *
Still like a Bur she clings and sticks;
To Russia tho she grins and kicks,
Holds by the fur, which yet may fail,
For bears, alas, have got no tail.
* * * * *
HOLLAND.
Let Mynheer Vanderschoffeldt flout,
And swear and rave for sour krout;
Nay kick his frow with solemn phiz,
To make her feel how goot it ish.
Yet after he has gorg'd his maw
With puttermilks and goot olt slaw,
Let him remember times are such,
The French have Holland, not the Dutch.
GERMANY.
With roaring blunderbuss and thunder
All Germany is torn asunder;
How num'rous circles near and far
Encircl'd in the arms of war;
Her Hessian bullies one and all,
Pay homage to the spurious Gaul;
And John Bull's farm, a goodly station,
Makes soup to please the Gallic nation.
_Norfolk Repos._, II-232, May 26, 1807, Dedham, Mass.
ON THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
By T. CAMPBELL.
_Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.
[Thomas Campbell, _idem_.
Battle of Hohenlinden, Bavaria, was fought Dec. 3, 1800, between the
Austrians under Archduke John and the French under General Moreau.]
THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.
Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway;
And all the social virtues lov'd to stray;
Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose,
Rever'd for ages by contending foes,
What envious demon, ranging to destroy,
Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy?
What horrid yells the affrighted ear assail!
What screams of terror load the passing gale!
See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance,
The shame of manhood, and the boast of France!
See trampled, crush'd and torn in lustful strife
The loathing virgin and indignant wife!
While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood,
And all the mountain torrents swell with blood!
Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade
O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid!
Around the desolated scene he throws
A look, that speaks insufferable woes:
Then starting from his trance of dumb despair,
Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air:
"Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze,
I pass'd the tranquil morning of my days,
On whose green tops malignant planets scowl,
Where hell hounds ravage, and the furies howl;
Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view,
Ye still are left to hear my last adieu!
My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound,
Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground,
To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day,
Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey,
Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel
Lust's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel!
And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given,
On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven,
Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd,
Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd,
O stay thy flight! Around this dreary shore
A moment hover, and we part no more--
On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs,
Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs--
O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care
Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer!
Look down, look down on this devoted land,
O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand!
O let the blood that streaming to the skies,
Still flows in torrents--let that blood suffice!
To thee the dreadful recompense belongs--
To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs;
O vindicate the rights of nation's sway,
And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"
_Weekly Inspector_, II-288, June 27, 1807, N. Y.
POETRY.
Original.
Gentlemen,
It has been remarked, that the poetick department of the Anthology
abounds rather in selected than original productions; whether this be
the result of choice or necessity, the following lines will not be
considered inapplicable since they partake the nature of both
characters, and hence, if in other respects worthy to appear, it is
presumed they will not be rejected.
FROM THE RUNIC.
'The power of Musick is thus hyperbolically commemorated in one of the
songs of the Runic Bards.'[45]
I know a Song, by which I soften and enchant the arms of my enemies,
and render their weapons of no effect.
I know a Song, which I need only to sing when men have loaded me with
bonds, for the moment I sing it, my chains fall in pieces, and I walk
forth at liberty.
I know a Song, useful to all mankind, for as soon as hatred inflames
the sons of men, the moment I sing it they are appeased.
I know a Song of such virtue, that were I caught in a storm, I can
hush the winds and render the air perfectly calm.
_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.
[Footnote 45: See Godwin's _Life of Chaucer_.]
THE SONG OF A RUNIC BARD.
Imitated in English verse.
I.
I know a Song, the magick of whose power
Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour;
From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm,
And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.
II.
I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay,
Broke from the grinding chain its links away.
While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled,
Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold;
Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance,
Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.
III.
I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd,
Quenching the fiery passions of mankind;
When lurking hate and deadly rage combine,
To charm the serpent of revenge is mine;
By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain,
And bid the lost affections live again.
IV.
I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow
To bend the monarchs of the forests low,
If to the lay my warbling voice incline,
Waking its various tones with skill divine,
Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm
Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form,
The day look up, the dripping hills serene
Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.
CAMBRIA.
_Mo. Anthology_, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.
THE SQUEAKING GHOST.
A tale imitated from the German, according to the true and genuine
principles of the horrifick.
The wind whistled loud! farmer Dobbin's wheat stack
Fell down! The rain beat 'gainst his door!
As he sat by the fire he heard the roof crack!
The cat 'gan to mew and to put up her back!
And the candle burnt--_just as before_!
The farmer exclaimed with a piteous sigh,
"To get rid of this curs'd noise and rout,
"Wife gi'e us some ale." His dame straight did cry,
Hemed and coughed three times three, then made this reply--
"I can't mun! Why? 'cause the cask's out!"
By the side of the fire sat Roger Gee-ho
Who had finished his daily vocation,
With Cicely, whose eyes were as black as a Sloe,
A damsel indeed who had never said No,
And because _she ne'er had an occasion_!
All these were alarmed by the loud piercing cries,
And were thrown in a terrible state,
Till open the door, with wide staring eyes,
They found to their joy, no less than surprise,
"_'Twas the old sow fast stuck in a gate!_"
_Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse_, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.
THE DESCENT OF ODIN.
_Port Folio_, V-406, June 25, 1808, Phila.
[In a review of _Odes from the Norse and Welch Tongues_ by Thomas
Gray.
Also in _New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New
Haven.]
THE DESCENT OF ODIN.
_Port Folio_, VI-55, 57, July 23, 1808, Phila.
[Thomas Gray, _idem_. A literal trans.; not the same as the above.
Criticism and reprint.]
THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND.
By JAMES MONTGOMERY.
_Gleaner_, I-78 etc., Oct. 1808, Lancaster (Penn.).
[James Montgomery, _op. cit._ Entire poem reprinted. Cf. Preface.]
The following imitation of the celebrated Swiss air "Ran des Vaches,"
in which there is great simplicity and sweetness, is from the pen of
the Editor of the Sheffield Iris, author of the Wanderer of
Switzerland.
THE SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.
O when shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
O when shall I dance on the daisy white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?
When shall I return to thy lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet?
The lambs and the heifers that follow my call;
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
O when shall I visit the land of my birth?
'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.
--J. M.
SHEFFIELD, June 1808.
_Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.
[_Ranz des Vaches._
James Montgomery, _The West Indies and Other Poems_, 3rd. ed., Phila.,
1811 (London, 1810).
P. 84, _The Swiss Cowherd's Song, in a Foreign Land_. "Imitated from
the foregoing," _i. e._, the French verses.]
THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND
_Lit. Mirror_, I-148, Oct. 29, 1808, Portsmouth, N. H.
[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]
THE SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.
_Balance and Columbian Repos._, VII-176, Nov. 1, 1808, Hudson, N. Y.
[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]
SONG OF THE SWISS IN A STRANGE LAND.
_Norfolk Repos._, III-392, Nov. 8, 1808, Dedham, Mass.
[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]
THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND.
By the Author of "The Wanderer of Switzerland."
_Lady's Weekly Misc._, VIII-128, Dec. 17, 1808, N. Y.
[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]
APPOINTMENT DISAPPOINTED!
OR,
VON SCHLEMMER, AND "POT LUCK."
An Englishman invited once
A German friend to dine
On plain _pot luck_,--for such his phrase--
And drink some good port wine.
Mein Herr repaired at proper time
With stomach for the treat:
The viands on the table placed,
Von Schlemmer took his seat.
Soup, turkey, beef, by turns were serv'd,
Mein Herr declin'd each one:
Fowls, turtle, sauce, they follow'd next,
Von Schlemmer tasted none.
His host at length, by kindness urged,
Press'd him to taste some duck:
"Ach nein!" with groans Von Schlemmer said,
"I vait for de POT LUCK."
--QUIZ.
_Select Reviews_, I-71, Jan. 1809, Phila.
On singing to a piano with a friend, the pathetic ballad of Mozart's
"Vergiss me nicht,"[46] a few days previous to quitting my native
country.
"Forget me not," nor yet the song,
Its plaintive notes our tears beguiling,
The fatal words died on my tongue,
And as you touch'd the trembling keys along,
Through lucid gems I saw you sadly smiling.
"Forget me not," ah! song of wo!
For never more our joys uniting,
With Sorrow's sigh no more to glow;
No more shall Pity's tear together flow,
Our love, our hopes, our joys forever blighting.
"Forget me not," oh! ever dear,
Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing,
As next you sing "Forget me not," a tear
Shall gently fall, my beating heart to cheer;
I'll never thee forget while I have life and feeling.
Julia Francesca.
_Port Folio_, VII (n. s. I)-272, Mar. 1809, Phila.
[Footnote 46: The German of "Forget me not."]
THE SOLDIER OF THE ALPS.
In the vallies yet lingered the shadows of night,
Though red on the glaciers the morning sun shone,
When our moss-covered church-tower first broke on my sight,
As I cross'd the vast oak o'er the cataract thrown.
For beyond that old church-tower, embosomed in pines,
Was the spot which contained all the bliss of my life,
Near yon grey granite rock, where the red ash reclines,
Stood the cottage where dwelt my loved children and wife.
Long since did the blasts of the war-trumpet cease,
The drum slept in silence, the colours were furled,
Serene over France rose the day-star of Peace,
And the beams of its splendour gave light to the world.
When near to the land of my fathers I drew,
And the drawn light her features of grandeur unveiled,
As I caught the first glimpse of her ice-mountains blue,
Our old native Alps with what rapture I hailed.
"Oh! soon, I exclaimed, will those mountains be passed,
And soon shall I stop at my own cottage door,
There my children's caresses will greet me at last,
And the arms of my wife will enfold me once more.
"While the fulness of joy leaves me powerless to speak,
Emotions which language can never define,
When her sweet tears of transport drop warm on my cheek,
And I feel her fond heart beat once more against mine.
"Then my boy, when our tumults of rapture subside,
Will anxiously ask how our soldiers have sped,
Will flourish my bay'net with infantile pride,
And exultingly place my plumed cap on his head.
"Then my sweet girl will boast how her chamois has grown;
And make him repeat all his antics with glee,
Then she'll haste to the vine that she claims as her own,
And fondly select its ripe clusters for me.
"And when round our fire we assemble at night,
With what interest they'll list to my tale of the war,
How our shining arms gleamed on St. Bernard's vast height,
While the clouds in white billows rolled under us far.
"Then I'll tell how the legions of Austria we braved,
How we fought on Marengo's victorious day,
When the colours of conquest dejectedly wave
Where streamed the last blood of the gallant Dessaix."
'Twas thus in fond fancy my bosom beat light
As I crossed the rude bridge where the wild waters roll,
When each well-known scene crowded fast on my sight,
And Hope's glowing visions came warm to my soul.
Through the pine-grove I hastened with footsteps of air
Already my lov'd ones I felt in embrace,
When I came--of my cot not a vestige was there--
But a hilloc of snow was heap'd high in its place.
The heart-rending story too soon did I hear--
An avalanche, loosed from the near mountain's side,
Our cottage o'erwhelmed in its thundering career,
And beneath it my wife and my children had died.
--IMOGEN.
_Port Folio_, VII (n. s. I)-350, Apr. 1809, Phila.
BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.
By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.
_Visitor_, I-47, Apr. 22, 1809, Richmond.
[Also in _Weekly Inspector_, II-272, June 20, 1807, N. Y.]
COW BOY'S CHAUNT.
Sweet, regretted, native shore;
Shall I e'er behold thee more,
And all the objects of my love:
Thy streams so clear,
Thy hills so dear,
The mountain's brow,
And cots below,
Where once my feet were wont to rove?
There with Isabella fair,
Light of foot, and free from care,
Shall I to the tabor bound?
Or at eve, beneath the dale,
Whisper soft my artless tale,
And blissful tread on fairy ground?
Oh! when shall I behold again
My lowly cot and native plain,
And every object dear;
My father, and my mother,
My sister and my brother,
And calm their anxious fear.
(European Mag.)
[The above is preceded by the music and the French words of the _Ranz
des Vaches_. Cf. p. 156.]
_Visitor_, I-72, June 3, 1809, Richmond.
THE SONG OF THE SWISS, IN A STRANGE LAND.
_Gleaner_, I-471, June 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).
[Also in _Emerald_, n. s., I-624, Oct. 15, 1808, Boston.]
CHARLOTTE AT THE TOMB OF WERTER.
With sorrow of heart I draw near,
The tomb where my Werter's at rest,
Soft pity oh, give me a tear
I will lighten the woes of my breast.
Sleep on thou dear shade, rest in peace,
Undisturbed by the woes of my breast,
For sure the soft slumber would cease
If with grief you know me opprest.
The meadow, the valley, the field,
Recesses that once gave delight,
Alas now how changed! for they yield
Nothing gayful or joyous to sight.
On the terrace I often remain,
And the loss of my Werter deplore,
While by the pale moon I complain,
Her beams, his loved image restore.
It was here the fond hope was inspired,
That with gladness enlivens my heart
That when this dull life is expired
We shall meet again never to part.
Yes, Werter, thy presage was just;
To cherish the hope be my care,
For should it forsake me, how must
I combat with grief and despair.
--A.
_Visitor_, I-136, Sept. 23, 1809, Richmond.
THE SQUEAKING GHOST.
A tale imitated from the German.
_Select Reviews_, II-357, Nov. 1809, Phila.
[Also in _Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse_, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.]
To those who have admired the singular poems of Lewis, Walter Scott,
and others, under the whimsical titles of "The Cloud-King," "The
Fire-King," etc., the following burlesque ballad may afford some
amusement.
THE PAINT-KING.
Fair Ellen, was once the delight of the young;
No damsel could with her compare;
Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue,
And bards without number in extacies sung
The beauties of Ellen, the Fair.
But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw
The darts of their eyes at her heart,
From the sorrow no pitying sympathy knew;
For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew
Not a drop from that petrified part.
Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore
A something that could not be found;
Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate shore,
With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar
Of breakers high-dashing around.
From object to object, still, still would she stray
Yet nothing, alas! could she find;
Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day,
And even at midnight, so restless, they say,
In sleep would run after the wind.
Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still,
When the rain made her mansion a pound,
Up and down would she go like the sails of a mill,
And pat every stair, like a wood-pecker's bill,
From the tiles of the roof to the ground.
One morn, as the maid from her casement reclin'd,
Pass'd a youth with a frame in his hand.
The casement she clos'd; not the eye of her mind;
For do all she could, no, she could not be blind;
Still before her she saw the youth stand.
"And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh,
"Ah! what with that frame can he do?
I wish I could know it." When suddenly by
The youth pass'd again; and again did her eye
The frame, and a sweet picture view.
"Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd,
"I must see thee again or I die;"
Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied,
And after the youth and the picture she hied,
Till the youth, looking back, met her eye.
"Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while),
"This picture, I see, you admire;
Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile
Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile)
Or, at least, keep you home by the fire."
Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise,
From the cunning young stripling receiv'd.
But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes,
When beaming with rapture they gazed on her prize:
Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd!
'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd;
And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone;
Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd,
And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind
Reflected the beams of his own.
'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old;
Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd,
"Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold,
Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold,
And press me this day as thy bride."
She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose
The youth ... and he stepp'd from the frame;
With a furious joy, his arms did enclose
The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze
The blood of the maid with his flame!
She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing
"Oh! heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?"
From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring,
When frowning, he thunder'd, "I am the Paint-King!
And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!"
Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift
The loud-screaming maid, like a blast;
And he sped through the air, like a meteor swift,
While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift
To the right and the left as he pass'd.
Now, suddenly sloping his hurricane flight,
With an eddying whirl he descends;
The air all below him becomes black as night,
And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright,
Like the surge of the Caspian bends.
"I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd
At the gates of a mountainous cave:
The gates open'd wide, as by magick unlock'd,
While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd,
Like an island of ice on the wave.
"Oh! mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms.
But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain.
"Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?"
She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms
That wake her to horror again.
She opens her lids; but no longer her eyes
Behold the fair youth she would woo:
Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise;
His face, like a palette of villainous dies,
Black and white, red and yellow, and blue.
On a bright polish'd throne, of prismatical[47] spar,
Sat the mosaick fiend like a clod;
While he rear'd in his mouth a gigantick cigar
Twice as big as the light-house, though seen from afar,
On the coast of the stormy Cape Cod.
And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen,
In horrid festoons on the wall,
Legs and arms, head and bodies, emerging between;
Like the drawing room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane,
By the Devil dress'd out for a ball.
"Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet,
"Must I hang on these walls to be dried?"
"Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat,
"A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet;
Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!"
Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair,
An oil-jug he plung'd her within.
Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair
Did Ellen in torment convulse the dim air,
All cover'd with oil to the chin.
On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone
Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid;
With a rock for his muller, he crush'd every bone;
But though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan;
For life had forsook not the maid.
Now reaching his palette with masterly care,
Each tint on the surface he spread;
The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair,
The pearl and the white of her forehead so fair
And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red.