Most lovely virtue of a soul
And purest font of tenderness,
More rare than Pamela in bliss,
And Byron's visions oft extolled!
If then another fire burns hot,
And weakens more your gentle light,
Felt but by him who knows you not,
For he who knows shall feel but night.
O Goddess in this paradise,
You ere lived here with us as one.
And still you drift as meadows rise
Each morning with the shining sun.
But only poets sage and meek
Will see you garbed in foggy twists.
Then Phoebus comes to chase the mist,
And there amidst the clouds you'll yield.