 | Poems |  |
160
THE FAIREST OF THE FAIR.
Roam where you will, by vale and hill,
From Vistula to Rhone;
No land is like the English land,
No maidens like our own.
Not the daintiest foreign ladies
With these sirens may compare;
Not Spanish dames with their music names,
Nor Frow with her yellow hair.
From Vistula to Rhone;
No land is like the English land,
No maidens like our own.
Not the daintiest foreign ladies
With these sirens may compare;
Not Spanish dames with their music names,
Nor Frow with her yellow hair.
Not the nymphs of olden story
In the earth and sea, and sky;
Not the houris of the Prophet
With their melting Arab eye;
Not Circe with her silver wand
And wildest witching smile,
Could pierce the heart with so sweet a smart
As the girls of our own free isle.
In the earth and sea, and sky;
Not the houris of the Prophet
With their melting Arab eye;
Not Circe with her silver wand
And wildest witching smile,
Could pierce the heart with so sweet a smart
As the girls of our own free isle.
161
They are not young immortals,
They drink no heaven-dew;
They have loving, mortal bosoms,
And hearts all warm and true;
They have soft and silken fingers,
And hair that the sun-beams kiss;
And a vermeil lip, whose nectar to sip,
Is better than earth's best bliss.
They drink no heaven-dew;
They have loving, mortal bosoms,
And hearts all warm and true;
They have soft and silken fingers,
And hair that the sun-beams kiss;
And a vermeil lip, whose nectar to sip,
Is better than earth's best bliss.
Let the haughty Eastern monarch
In his gaudy chariot ride,
And flaunt his might in the red sun-light,
And sweep along in pride.
Are his camels and his jewels,
And his empty, vain parade,
Worth a little half of the merry laugh
Of a lightsome English maid?
In his gaudy chariot ride,
And flaunt his might in the red sun-light,
And sweep along in pride.
Are his camels and his jewels,
And his empty, vain parade,
Worth a little half of the merry laugh
Of a lightsome English maid?
There breathes no music's melody
Like what her sweet lip speaks;
Bee never tasted honey-wine
Like what is on her cheeks;
Earth knows no mighty magic
Like the magic of her eyes;
And to circle her waist were a joy to taste
That might bring down the blest from their skies.
Like what her sweet lip speaks;
Bee never tasted honey-wine
Like what is on her cheeks;
Earth knows no mighty magic
Like the magic of her eyes;
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That might bring down the blest from their skies.
Ne'er tell of statesmen's laurels,
Ne'er talk of victor's bays;
Let the scholar leave his night-lamp,
And the poet leave his lays;
There's an eloquence words may not equal;
There's a power no sword may surpass;
There's poetry in store, and there's wondrous lore
On the lip of an English lass.
Ne'er talk of victor's bays;
Let the scholar leave his night-lamp,
And the poet leave his lays;
There's an eloquence words may not equal;
There's a power no sword may surpass;
There's poetry in store, and there's wondrous lore
On the lip of an English lass.
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