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39

VIII. SONG.

Nymphs! with balmy smiles caressing,
Hear the Poet breathe desire:
All his graceful numbers blessing,
Sweetly languish o'er his lyre!
When the morn of beauty beaming,
Sheds for you her rosy rays;
His soft notes melodious-streaming
Waft to distant climes your praise.
When your charms in age declining
Lost to love no longer glow,
In his verse immortal shining
All your early graces blow!