See ! the proud pacha's hand is laid
As fondly on his daughter's head
As ever Christian father mild
Hath rested his upon his child.
And ne'er did opening flower disclose,
Since Chaucer saw his budding rose
So rich in beauty and perfume,
The promise of a fairer bloom,
Than even the careless eye must trace-
In Fatmeh's childish form and face.
Her large black eye with its clear ray
Spoke of near kinship to the Bey,
Yet tempered were its rising flashes
By the long drooping silken lashes.
That o'er those orbs transparent hung,
And down their trembling shadows flung,
Like willow-boughs that fringe a lake,
And its pure sheen less dazzling make.
The ebon arches o'er them bent
Were true as Giotto's hand could paint.