Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?

Twines not of them one golden thread,

But for its sake a Paynim bled.’

“Joy to the fair!⁠—my name unknown,

Each deed, and all its praise thine own;

Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,

The night-dew falls, the hour is late.

Inured to

Syria

’s glowing breath,

I feel the north breeze chill as death;

Let grateful love quell maiden shame,

And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.”