O, Abla, no—when Selim tells
Of many an unknown grace that dwells
    In Abla's face and mien;
When he describes the sense refined
That lights thine eye, and fills thy mind,
    By thee alone unseen,—

’Tis not that, drunk with Love, he sees
Ideal charms which only please
    Through Passion's partial veil;
’Tis not that Flattery's glozing tongue
Hath basely framed an idle song,
    But Truth that breathed the tale.

Thine eyes unaided ne’er could trace
Each opening charm, each varied grace,
    That round thy person plays:
Some must remain concealed from thee,
For Selim's watchful eye to see,
    For Selim's tongue to praise.

One polished mirror can declare
That eye so bright, that face so fair,
    That cheek which shames the rose;.
But how thy mantle waves behind,
How float thy tresses on the wind,
    Another only shows.