To Miss C. . .


Thy glance is the brightest;
Thy voice is the sweetest;
Thy step is the lightest;
Thy shape the compleatest;
Thy waist, I could span dear;
Thy neck's like a swan's dear;
And roses the sweetest,
On thy cheek's do appear.


The music of spring,
Is the voice of my charmer;
When the nightingales sing,
She's as sweet; — who would harm her;
Where the snowdrop, and lily lies,
They shew her face: — but her eyes,
Are the dark clouds, — (yet warmer) —
From which the quick lightning flies, —
O'er the face of my charmer.


Her face is the snowdrop,
So pure on its stem,
And love in her bosom,
She wears as a gem.
She is young as spring flowers,
And sweet as may showers,
Swelling the clover buds, bending the stem,
She's the sweetest of blossoms; she's loves favorite gem.
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