TO CALLIRHOE, AT LAUSANNE.
Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd.
But, oh! I wak'd.——MILTON.
I twine far distant from my Tuscan grove,
The lily chaste, the rose that breathes of love,
The myrtle leaf, and Laura's hallow'd bay,
The deathless flowers that bloom o'er Sappho's clay;
For thee, Callirhoe! yet by love and years,
I learn how fancy wakes from joy to tears;