Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin

But tell me to what saint, I pray, / What martyr, or what angel bright, / Is dedicate this holy day, / Which brings you here so gaily dight? / Dost thou not, simple Palmer, know, / What every child can tell thee here? -- / Nor saint nor angel claims this show, / But the bright season of the year. / - Queenhoo Hall, by Strutt

The sole and beautiful inmate of the isle, though disturbed at the appearance of her worshippers, soon recovered her tranquillity. She could not be conscious of fear, for nothing of that world in which she lived had ever borne a hostile appearance to her. The sun and the shade -- the flowers and foliage -- the tamarinds and figs that prolonged her delightful existence -- the water that she drank, wondering at the beautiful being who seemed to drink whenever she did -- the peacocks, who spread out their rich and radiant plumage the moment they beheld her -- and the loxia, who perched on her shoulder and hand as she walked, and answered her sweet voice with imitative chirpings -- all these were her friends, and she knew none but these.