Beatrice

Untouch'd by mortal passion,
Thou seem'st of heavenly birth,
Pure as the effluence of a star
Just reach'd our distant earth!
Gave Fancy's pencil never
To an ideal fair
Such spiritual expression
As thy sweet features wear.
An inward light to guide thee
Unto thy soul is given,
Pure and serene as its divine
Original in heaven.
Type of the ransom'd Psyche!
How gladly, hand in hand,
To some new world I'd fly with thee
From off this mortal strand.