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Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel

Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun Dyes with his morning light,-and would conceal

Her person if allow'd at large to run, And still they seem resentfully to feel

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan.

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,

The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, They were so soft and beautiful, and rife

With all we can imagine of the skies,
And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife--

Too pure even for the purest human ties;
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged

(It is the country's custom), but in vain ; For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed,

The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, And in their native beauty stood avenged :

Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again The power of art was turn’d to nothing, for They could not look more rosy than before.



(DON JUAN, Canto xv. Stanzas 43-47.)

And then there was—but why should I go on,

Unless the ladies should go off ?—there was
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one,

Of the best class, and better than her class, Aurora Raby, a young star who shone

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass,
A lovely being, scarcely form’d or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ;

Rich, noble, but an orphan : left an only

Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; But still her aspect had an air so lonely!

Blood is not water; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie

By death, when we are left, alas ! behind,
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ?

Early in years, and yet more infantine

In figure, she had something of sublime
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine.

All youth—but with an aspect beyond time ; Radiant and grave—as pitying man's decline ;

Mournful—but mournful of another's crime, She look'd as if she sate by Eden's door, And grieved for those who could return no more. She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere,

As far as her own gentle heart allow'd,
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear

Perhaps because 'twas fall’n : her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had filld the ear

Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast.

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,

As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew,

And kept her heart serene within its zone. There was awe in the homage which she drew ;

Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne Apart from the surrounding world, and strong In its own strength-most strange in one so young !



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