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THE SPELL!

“ She was bright as a summer's morn
When all the heav'n is streak’d with dappled fires,
And flush'd with blushes like a rifled maid."
“ There was a pretty redness in her lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mix'd in her cheek."

'Tis not because thy lovesome eye

Outbeams the young Gazelle's ; 'Tis not because thy tuneful sigh Dear woman's musing tells.

It is the spell, my blooming maid,

Which lingers round thy charms, That woos me to the twilight shade,

And beds me in thine arms.

'Tis not the hue that love has ta'en

Thy vermil lip to flush; Nor is it that the roses twain

Are wedded in thy blush.

It is the spell, my blooming maid,

Which lingers round thy charms, That woos me to the twilight shade

And beds me in thine arms.

'Tis not the smile that gives to light

Thy teeth of pearly die,
Nor is it yet thy ringlets bright,
Disporting lovelily.

It is the spell, my blooming maid,

Which lingers round thy charms, That woos me to the twilight shade,

And beds me in thine arms.

'Tis not thy harp, that flings around

Fit music for above'Tis not thy voice's silvery sound, Though breath'd to words of love.

It is the spell, my blooming maid,

Which lingers round thy charms, That woos me to the twilight shade,

And beds me in thine arms.

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Drink plenteously, my thirsty eyes,

From such a fount of bliss;
Inhale, my soul, through humid sighs,

The nectar of her kiss.
Pant, pant, my heart, with flutterings wild,

And throb, my burning breast;
Who loves not fiercely beauty's child,
By love should ne'er be blest.

Then wake the spell, my blooming maid,

Which lingers round thy charms,
And bid me to the twilight shade,

To nestle in thine arms.

WRITTEN IN

GARDENS

“ The dove flies not alone,
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair."
“ Amour, amour, quand tu nous tiens
On peut bien dire-adieu prudence !"

Let the silver lute of love,

Lightly breathe its silken measure Let the fair and faithful rove

Round our flowery haunt of pleasure.

Let Æolia's murm’ring string

Swell the wanton zephyr's sighLet our choral voices fling

Symphon to the starry sky.

Let Anacreon's fervid lyre

In its melting numbers speak

Let the flush of fond desire

Print its rose on beauty's cheek.

Let the heart that pulses true,

Seek a home on woman's breast, Like the wandering dove that flew

Erewhile to its ark of rest.

O'er our leafy bower of love,

Warbling peris now are winging, While their dewy pinions move

To the tender lay they 're singing.

Sweet's the sleep in moon-lit cell,

Beneath the clustering woodbine-shade, But sweeter far, than I may tell,

To share that sleep with blushing maid.

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