Her form, and suppos’d that her lover was there;
Even I, that the vision was real, half believ’d;
The Blacking reflected her image so clear.
She hover’d around, at the figure still gazing,
Anxiety seem’d but to heighten her woe;
She perch’d on the Boot with a courage amazing,
And fondled the vision that bloom’d in its glow.
I pity’d the dove, for my bosom was tender,—
I pity’d the strain that she gave to the wind;
But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendour