HER HAIR AND EYES The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd, Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke, Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke, That freedom thence I hope not to behold, O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab old Medusa, when she changed him to an oak; Nor ever can the fairy knot be broke Whose light outshines the sun, not merely gold; I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snare Which folds and fastens with so sweet a grace My soul, whose humbleness defends alone. Her mere shade freezes with a cold despair My heart, and tinges with pale fear my face; And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone. Macgregor.