704 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1810. 



And locks flung back, and lips apart. 

 Like monument of Grecian art, 

 In list'ning mood, she seem'd to stand 

 The guardian Naiad ot the strand. 



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 dash'd the dew ; 



E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head. 



Elastic from her airy tread : 



What though upon her speech there hung 



The accents of the raouniain tongue,— 



Those silver sounds, so oft, so dear, 



The list'ner held his breath to hear. 



A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid ; 

 Her satin snood, her silken plaid, 

 Her golden brooch such birth betray'd. 

 And seldom was a snood amid 

 Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 

 Whose glossy black to shame might bring 

 The plumage of the raven's wing ; 

 And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 

 Mantled a plaid with modest care, 

 And never brooch the folds combined 

 Above a heart more good and kind. 

 Her kindness and her worth to spy. 

 You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 

 Not Katrine, in her mirror blue. 

 Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 

 Than every free-born glance confess'd 

 The guileless movements of her breast; 

 Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 

 Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh. 

 Or filial love was glowing there. 

 Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, 

 Or tale of injury call'd forth 

 The indignant spirit of the north. 



