To Mrs. Catherine P

T HOUGH Lovibond , sweet Bard, is yours no more,
And fled the tear that could the song adore;
Your sense and wit, the music of the mind,
Are gems that Love and Virtue left behind.
Though with imperfect vision you can see ,
You 're as quick-scented as an Attic bee;
You sip with taste the Summer's tempting flower,
In classic beds of sweet Arcadia's bower, —
But find, and blushing for the wings that roam,
Your cup of honey better fill'd at home.
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