The Lady of the Lake

And ne’er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form or lovelier face! 
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,—­
The sportive toil, which, short and light
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow: 
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had trained her pace,—­
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne’er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;
E’en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread: 
What though upon her speech there hung
 The accents of the mountain tongue,—–­
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!