THE QUEEN OF MAY. 137 
Hers was a face which recalled the immortal sculpture 
of ancient Greece; and you might have fancied, but 
for the pearly flush which softened into the peach-like 
velvetness of her cheeks, and the smile which ever 
played about the parted rosebuds of her lips, that her 
head and neck had been chiseled from the whitest 
marble, with just such a warmth thrown over it as 
sometimes flushes the pearl-white blossoms of the 
Hawthorn. The silken flow of her nut-brown hair 
was parted Madonna-wise in front, beautifully broken 
by the damask coronet of wild roses, which here and 
there went rounding off, or was half buried in the 
dark back-ground of her tresses, like a bird partly hid¬ 
den among the blossoms amid which it sings : a mild, 
tender light played about the softened sunshine of her 
hazel eyes, throwing a brightness over the heaven 
from which they beamed, and a happiness over every 
countenance, which reflected back the smiling sweet¬ 
ness of their cheering lustre, like the sunshine stream¬ 
ing upon a bed of open primroses, and causing the 
pale yellow of the modest flowers to “ give back gold 
for gold.” Around the ivory pillar of her neck hung a 
band of rosebuds, beautifully twisted into a silken 
riband; the warm marble of her arms was orna- 
