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“Yet, lovely flower, I find in thee
“Wild sweetness which no words express,

“And charms in thy simplicity,
“That dwell not in the pride of dress.”

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–oTHE WIOLET AND THE PAN.SY. SHEPHERD, if near thy artless breast The God of fond desires repair; Implore him for a gentle guest, Implore him with unwearied prayer. Should beauty's soul-enchanting smile, Love-kindling looks, and features gay,

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Should these thy wandering eye beguile, And steal thy wareless heart away;

That heart shall soon with sorrow swell,
And soon the erring eye deplore,
If in the beauteous bosom dwell

No gentle virtue's genial store.

Far from his hive one summer-day
A young and yet unpractised bee,

Borne on his tender wings away,
Went forth the flowery world to see.

The morm, the noon, in play he passed, But when the shades of evening came,

No parent brought the due repast, And faintness seized his little frame.

By nature urged, by instinct led,
The bosom of a flower he sought,
Where streams mourned round a mossy bed,

And violets all the bank enwrought.

Of kindred race, but brighter dies,
On that fair bank a Pansy grew,

That borrowed from indulgent skies
A velvet shade and purple hue.

The tints that streamed with glossy gold,
The velvet shade, the purple hue,

The stranger wondered to behold,
And to its beauteous bosom flew.

Not fonder haste the lover speeds,
At evening's fall, his fair to meet,

When o'er the hardly-bending meads
He springs on more than mortal feet.

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