A haunt of beauties rare. 
The gay dawn smells more fragrant there,
(When youthful May, new, fresh and fair,
Comes, bird-like through the laughing air,)
      Than it was even of old;
And Evening throws a richer dress,
(O’er Elfindale’s mild loveliness,)
      Of fading pink and gold. 
The moonlight nights are lovelier now,
      On silent Elfindale;
More pure the beams, more soft the glow,
      That sleeps upon the vale: 
So much of beauty God hath given
To sweetest Frankie—­gracious Heaven! 
She spares so much to beautify,
Fair Elfindale to my charm’d eye,—­
And yet she loses none at all
Of that which holds my soul in thrall. 
Now, if my harp shall echo well,
The story of her life, and tell,
In worthy feet, her beauty’s power
That flourished as a springtime flower,
I shall be richer, happier far
Than one should own a round, bright star. 
And what if the fair maid should smile,
      To hear my warbled strain? 
Ah! that would all my grief beguile,
      Undo the life of Pain. 
I one time saw a laughing mirth
Leap in the maiden’s eyes,
And thought the too aspiring earth
Had robbed the jewelled skies,
Of one bright angel, even her: 
She made my very being stir.

I ne’er saw sweet Frankie’s mother,
      What I had glowed to see,
Yet think no mortal earth’s another,
      Bore child so fair as she. 
I ween that mother was a queen
      In royal qualities,
And in her lofty eyes and mien,
      Lurked lovely majesties. 
I ne’er saw sweet Frankie’s mother,
      What I had glowed to see;
But cannot, long-lost mother! smother
      The love that swells for thee.

When Frankie came into this world,
      In lovely Elfindale,
The winds were lulled, and waves lay curled,
      Beneath the moonlight pale: 
The cold stars twinkled far above,
And danced, with their bright eyes of love;
The gleaming waters did rejoice,
And breathed a soft, enamored voice;
The sleeping zephyr on his flowers,
Awaked to bless the gliding hours
Which gave this tiny being, birth,
A bliss, a Blessing to the earth. 
She was, in truth, a beauteous child: 
At three years old her eyes were wild
With something of a playfulness;
And then she had the softest tress
Of auburn tint, that fell and flew
About her neck of damask hue. 
To watch throughout the Summer day,
The butterfly’s capricious play,
Or humming bird’s bright, rainbow wings,
And all gay, joyous, natural things. 
To hear the poets of the grove,
Sing forth their little lays of love;
Or to survey the stars come forth,
Or dancing rainbows hug the earth: 
These were the pastime and the play,
That whiled her infant hours away. 
And blest was sylvan Elfindale,
With child so fair within its pale.