Behold the semblance of thy flower!
I could not fill its leaves with dew,
Shew its tints varying with the hour,
Its motion as the zephyrs blew.

And beauty too were more complete,
Appearing on the native stem,
In midst of buds and blossoms sweet,
And catching graces, charms from them.

Or blooming under eyes like thine,
Whose fond, soft gaze, whose tender tear,
Must also, losing power divine,
Awake no answering sweetness here.

For much of loveliness must sleep,
E'en when inspir'd and led by truth;
The faithful pencil aims to keep
Mildness and innocence and youth.




XVI.

To MRS. A.


An Hour was before me, no creature more bright,
More airy, more joyous, e'er sprang on my sight.