When as abroad, to greet the morn,

     I mark my Graciosa walk,

     In homage bends the whisp'ring corn,

             Yet to confess

             Its awkwardness

     Must hang its head upon the stalk.

     And when she talks, her lips do heal

     The wounds her lightest glances give:—

     In pity then be harsh, and deal

             Such wounds that I

             May hourly die,

     And, by a word restored, live.