Oh! she was good as she was fair.
None -- none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are,
To know her was to love her.
When little, and her eyes, her voice,
Her every gesture said, "rejoice,"
Her coming was a gladness;
And, as she grew, her modest grace,
Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace,
When, shading with her hand her face
She half inclined to sadness.
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted;
Like music to the heart it went.
And her dark eyes -- how eloquent!
Ask what they would, 'twas granted.
Her father loved her as his fame;
-- And Bayard's self had done the same!