Though on that head there bent the rarest plume,
Thy looks could well a loftier air assume;
Though theirs the pride of coronet and crest,
Thyself wert clad in Inspiration's vest:
And all these baubles, beauteous in the sight,
Might veil their lustre in thy glorious light.
Then, lady, call it not a "selfish strain,"
Thy supplicating wish to "come again."
Deem not the "village inn" "no fitting place"
To greet congenial feeling face to face;