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 I. 
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 I. 
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 IV. 
Chapter IV.
 V. 
 VI. 
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 VIII. 

Chapter IV.

HE.
What sparkling language can describe my fair?
Not all the various charms that nature boasts,
In gay similitudes can reach her worth.
Less mild than her's the eyes of doves appear.
Her tresses waving to the sportive wind,
Look like the frisking kids on Gilead's plain.
In equal rows her teeth appear more white
Than sheep new shorn wash'd in the crystal brook.
Her lips like threads of scarlet: When she speaks
In sweetest sounds the melting accents flow.
Her rosy cheeks glow thro' the flowing curls,
Like ripe pomegranates blushing on the tree.
Like David's lofty tow'r her graceful neck,
Circled with gems, as that with glitt'ring shields.
Her breasts, the seat of innocence and truth,
Harmless and white as twins of gentle roes,
Which in some fragrant spot of lillies feed.

255

'Till the celestial morn with golden beams
Dispels the gloom, and clears the dusky sky,
I'll hasten to the hills of frankincense,
And dropping myrrhe; while thro' the silent shades
Refreshing gales their balmy breath diffuse.
How fair thou art! how spotless in my sight!
Return, my Love, from Lebanon with me
To Shenir's groves, and Hermon's flow'ry plain.
Look from the top of Amana, nor fear
The spotted leopard, or the lion's range.
A thousand graces lighten in thy eyes;
In pleasing chains thy captive I am held,
My Spouse! my Sister!—If beyond these names
Of chaste affection, there are dearer ties,
Still thou art more to me! My ravish'd heart
Dwells on thy heav'nly beauties, and prefers
Thy love to all the joys of sprightly wine.
Not honey dropping from the luscious comb
Exceeds the sweetness on thy balmy lips.
The vernal scents of Lebanon perfume
Thy flowing vest with aromatic dews.
A garden well enclos'd, a fountain seal'd
From all unholy and profane access,
Such is my Love to me: As fertile too,
As some fair orchard crown'd with ev'ry plant
Grateful in taste or smell.—Thro' verdant leaves
The large pomegranate's ripen'd scarlet glows,

256

While spikenard, cassia, frankincense and myrrhe
Their humid odours yield: The golden bloom
Of saffron spreads its treasures to the sun.
But thou art sweeter than the flow'ry spring,
Or blest Arabia when her spices blow;
Thy mind unsully'd as the crystal streams
That plenteous flow from tow'ring Lebanon.

SHE.
Awake, thou north, ye southern breezes rise,
With silken wings your balmy vapour spread,
And open ev'ry aromatic bloom!
While my Beloved with his presence glads
The sylvan scenes, and tastes my pleasant fruits.