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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;
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;
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 ;