ΤΟ ΙΑNTHE. Nor in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd; Not in those visions to the heart displaying beam'd To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on the what language could they speak? Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears, Young Peri of the West! - 'tis well for me bleed, |