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morning beaming on the flowery beds,

Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace,

Is far less lovely than thy lovely face—

Where Lada all her rays of radiance spreads.

The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring,

Which paints the may-rose, has no tint to give

So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring,

With ever-living smiles that round them live.

The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer

Than the gold strings of the musician's bow,

So magical:—to what shall I compare her!

To fable's dreams? O no! for here a rarer

And a diviner model I can show—

A foot whose touch moves not the sands below.