 | Christina |  |
ix
TO SIR WILLIAM ELFORD, BART.
Have you not mark'd, when sudden clouds arise,And short-liv'd tempests threat fair April's skies,
The timid dove, of shadowy ills afraid,
Fly o'er the plain, and seek th' embowering glade;
Then plume her breast, and thro' the sheltering grove
Pour her mild notes of gratitude and love?
So, shrinking from the critic frown, I flew
On trembling wing to Genius and to you;
Proud with your wreath my Indian flower to blend,
Elford, far prouder thus to hail you Friend!
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Bertram House, March, 1811.
| Christina | |