In your father's gallery once, I saw your pictured face, Ione you were not always so sad and pale as this, No beauty in all the long line of your noble race Had eyes so softly bathed in bright bewitchment of bliss, You were just nineteen, they saidit was painted in Spain The year before you cameit was on your foreign tour, By an artist too low to be reached by your disdain, A delicate, passionate-hearted boy, proud and poor.

Romancers have written, and poets have sung, of the bewitchment in nut-brown locks, golden tresses, and jetty curls.