Sonnet Ix

TO THE COUNTESS HELÉNE ZAVADOWSKY. WHEN our young Queen put on her rightful crown In Gothic Westminster's long-hallow'd walls, The eye upon no lovelier sight look'd down Than thou, fair Russian! Memory still recalls The soft light of thy sapphire-colour'd eyes, The rich twine of thy simply-braided hair, And the low murmur of the crowd's surprise To see thee pass along so strangely fair. Nor didst thou charm by looks and smiles alone,-- Thy 'broken English' had its share of grace; For something in thy accent and thy tone So match'd the beauty of thy gentle face, We seem'd to hear our old familiar words Set to some foreign lute or harp's melodious chords!