University of Virginia Library


171

TO CYNTHIA.

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(From the Antholog. Lond.)

How winning are those pearly drops
That pity bids to flow!
Soft o'er thy blooming cheek they glide,
And wet thy breast of snow.
Thus thro' the sweetly-scented vale,
The lucid streamlet goes,
And moistens with its glittering waves,
The lily and the rose.
And as when dews of eve descend
To cool the scorched bower,
Some joyful flutterer hovers round,
And bathes him in the shower.
So young Desire, amid thy tears,
His silken pinions plies,
And shakes his torch with playful hand,
And brighter flames arise.