To wife consigns his hat, and takes the child;
But she,—a day like this hath never felt—
'Oh! that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!'—
Such monstrous heat—dear me!—she never knew.
'Adown her innocent and beauteous face,
The big, round pearly drops each other chase;'
Thence trickling to those hills, erst white as snow,
That now like Ætna's mighty mountains glow,
They hang like dew-drops on the full-blown rose,