Alone amidst the crowd the maid proceeds,
Nor seeks to hide her beauty, nor display;
Downcast her eyes, close veiled in simple weeds,
With coy and graceful steps she wins her way:
So negligently neat, one scarce can say
If she her charms disdains, or would improve,--
If chance or taste disposes her array;
Neglects like hers, if artifices, prove
Arts of the friendly Heavens, of Nature, and of Love.
All, as she passed unheeding, all, admire
The noble maid; before the king she stood;
Not for his angry frown did she retire,
But his indignant aspect coolly viewed:
"To give,"--she said, "but calm thy wrathful mood,
And check the tide of slaughter in its spring,--
To give account of that thou hast pursued
So long in vain, seek I thy face, O king!
The urged offence I own, the doomed offender bring!"
The modest warmth, the unexpected light
Of high and holy beauty, for a space
O'erpowered him,--conquered of his fell despite,
He stood, and of all fierceness lost the trace.
Were his a spirit, or were hers a face
Of less severity, the sweet surprise
Had melted him to love; but stubborn grace
Subdues not stubborn pride; Love's potent ties
Are flattering fond regards, kind looks, and smiling eyes.
If 't were not Love that touched his flinty soul,
Desire it was, 't was wonder, 't was delight:
"Safe be thy race!" he said, "reveal the whole,
And not a sword shall on thy people light.
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