Hadst thou liv’d in days of old,   
O what wonders had been told   
Of thy lively countenance,   
And thy humid eyes that dance   
In the midst of their own brightness;           
In the very fane of lightness.   
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,   
Picture out each lovely meaning:   
In a dainty bend they lie,   
Like to streaks across the sky,    
Or the feathers from a crow,   
Fallen on a bed of snow.   
Of thy dark hair that extends   
Into many graceful bends:   
As the leaves of Hellebore    
Turn to whence they sprung before.   
And behind each ample curl   
Peeps the richness of a pearl.   
Downward too flows many a tress   
With a glossy waviness;    
Full, and round like globes that rise   
From the censer to the skies   
Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness   
Of thy honied voice; the neatness   
Of thine ankle lightly turn’d:    
With those beauties, scarce discern’d,   
Kept with such sweet privacy,   
That they seldom meet the eye   
Of the little loves that fly   
Round about with eager pry.    
Saving when, with freshening lave,   
Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;   
Like twin water lillies, born   
In the coolness of the morn.   
O, if thou hadst breathed then,    
Now the Muses had been ten.   
Couldst thou wish for lineage higher   
Than twin sister of Thalia?   
At least for ever, evermore,   
Will I call the Graces four.    
   
Hadst thou liv’d when chivalry   
Lifted up her lance on high,   
Tell me what thou wouldst have been?   
Ah! I see the silver sheen   
Of thy broidered, floating vest    
Cov’ring half thine ivory breast;   
Which, O heavens! I should see,   
But that cruel destiny   
Has placed a golden cuirass there;   
Keeping secret what is fair.    
Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested   
Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:   
O’er which bend four milky plumes   
Like the gentle lilly’s blooms   
Springing from a costly vase.    
See with what a stately pace   
Comes thine alabaster steed;   
Servant of heroic deed!   
O’er his loins, his trappings glow   
Like the northern lights on snow.    
Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!   
Sign of the enchanter’s death;   
Bane of every wicked spell;   
Silencer of dragon’s yell.   
Alas! thou this wilt never do:    
Thou art an enchantress too,   
And wilt surely never spill   
Blood of those whose eyes can kill.