SONNET IV.

I Praise thee not, ARISTE, that thine eye

Knows each emotion of the soul to speak;

That lillies with thy face might fear to vie,

And roses can but emulate thy cheek.

I praise thee not because thine auburn hair

In native tresses wantons on the wind;

Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair,

Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind:

‘ Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won,

That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest;

Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast,

As the soft radiance of the setting sun,

When varying through the purple hues of light,

The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.