LINES
To Miss M——t W——s, of P. Edward.
| From her own garden Nature chose, In all its blooming pride the Rose, And from the feathered race the Dove: Then Margaret, on thy cheek she threw The blushing flower's most beauteous hue, And formed thy temper from the bird of love! Oh! what delight it is to trace The modest sweetness of thy face— Thy simple elegance and ease— Thy smile, disclosing orient pearl— Thy locks, profuse of many a curl— And hear thy gentle voice, that never fails to please! |