My harp that has been mute too long
Shall sleep at Beauty’s name no more,
So but your smiles reward my song—
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.
In whose benignant eyes are beaming
The rays of purity and truth;
Such as we fancy woman’s seeming
In the creation’s golden youth.
The more I look upon thy grace,
Rosina, I could look the more;