Sweet is Cytherea's breath, But fresher far is Flora's wreath. Thy voice, like the harp of Arion, may please, O'er thy "gently-budding" breast; "Tis night! And SHAKSPEARE, near this river, gazed upon The lovely moon, that now as softly smiles Upon the stream, as if Endymion Was bathing there;-Shakspeare, the kindest, best Of casuists, who knew humanity, Nor deem'd the gravest the elect of Heaven !— Prince of fairy land, A moving throne he sits upon, The sceptre's in his hand. All-glorious his attire, With jewels powder'd o'er; Fall by thousands at a time; WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT CHAMOUNI. THOUGH I might visit scenes which show The littleness of pride; Mountains whose heights, o'ertopped with snow, Man's venturous foot deride; Though on the master-works of art Intensely I might gaze, "Till words do but express The fulness of amaze; in part Or as o'er ashes of the mighty dead, With mixed belief and doubtfulness, I tread,Still, England, still my mind will dwell On thee, and those I love as well! TO MY INFANT CHILD. SLEEP, my sweet child, within thy mother's arms, Sleep on, sweet Julia, at thy mother's breast; On earthly things have angels ever smiled? On one-the mother bending o'er her child. Rich is the flower's perfume, sweet girl, to thee; Richer in fragrance shall the musk-rose be, When the young world may open to thy view, And nature's charms, too soon forgot, are new. Long be thy mother's fair attractions thine; Great Spirit of the universe, protect This child, and may she ne'er thy works neglect ; |