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IRANDA! mark where shrinking from the gale, Its silken leaves yet moist with early dew, That fair faint flower, the Lily of the Vale, Droops its meek head, and looks, methinks, like you! Wrapp'd in a shadowy veil of tender green, Its snowy bells a soft perfume dispense, And bending as reluctant to be seen, In simple loveliness it sooths the sense. With bosom bared to meet the garish day, The glaring Tulip, gaudy, undismay'd, Offends the eye of taste; that turns away To seek the Lily in her fragrant shade. With such unconscious beauty, pensive, mild, Miranda charms—Nature's soft modest child.