Page:Court Journal 1835.pdf/7



, Aurore, I implore, I am glad when thou art breaking. That sweet cheek Whose smiles I seek, Is vermillion like thy waking.

Bathed and fair With dew and air, Yon fresh rose has less of brightness; And less fine Is the ermine, While the milk has less of whiteness.

To rejoice In her soft voice, Leave they yonder hamlet lonely; And the swain Neglects his strain, Listening to her music only.

She is fair Beyond compare,— You may span her waist so slender; Like a star Her soft eyes are, Opening in its morning splendour.

When none heed her, Hebe feeds her With such balm as heaven consumeth; And her mouth, Like the sweet south, With one fragrant touch perfumeth.