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SONNET VII. ON SEEING THE SAME LADY.
I look'd on the pale face which poets love,And scann'd its sweetness with a stedfast eye;
I listen'd to the eloquent witchery
Of her low, plaintive song:—awhile she wove
Her fairy meshes round me, and did move
My soul to a wild worship. Then did I,
By the strong aid of wakeful Memory,
Whose sprites for ever at Love's bidding rove,
Summon Ione from her silent cell.
Sudden, in all the glory and the pride
Of intellectual beauty, at my side
She stood, and on my soul her bright eyes fell,
Beaming with earnest thought.—I heard one tone
Of her far voice—and straight that phantom pale was flown.
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