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To Genevra.

THINE eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,

And the wan lustre of thy features-caught

From contemplation—where serenely wrought,

Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught

With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought

I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!

With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtuescorn,



To Genevra.

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow:

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush,

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,

The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,

I worship more, but cannot love thee less.



Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog.

When some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:

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