O, COULD I a garland braid,
That would never, never fade,
I would crown the modest maid
Queen of earth's joy-giving band!
Poor or wealthy, dark or fair,
Lo, that happy one's an heir
To a dowery as rare
As e'er fell from fortune's hand!

Not the look which once to spy,
Would the stoic's pride destroy,
Could to my astonished eye,
Her endearing looks eclipse;
Not the music which to hear,
Would dispel the cynic's sneer,
Could to my astonished ear
Spoil the music of her lips!

Let the haughty beauty frown;
Let the wretch her rigour own;
Once her mid-day splendour flown,
Banished is her boasted power:
Whereas she that's modest wears
Dearer with the march of years;
Yea, like yonder sun appears
Grandest in her setting hour!