Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the warm lustre of thy features--caught
From contemplation--where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair--
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought--
I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that _thou_ hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn--
Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn.