May my song soften as, thy daughters, I,
hail! for beauty is their own,
The feeling heart simplicity of life,
And elegance, and taste: the faultless form,
Shap'd by the hand of ; the cheek,
Where the live crimson, thro' the native white
Soft-shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom,
And every nameless grace; the parted lip,
Like the red rose-bud, moist with morning-dew,
Breathing delight; and, under flowing jet,
Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown,
The neck slight-shaded, and the swelling breast;
The look resistless, piercing to the soul,
And by the soul inform'd, when, drest in love,
She sits high smiling in the conscious eye.