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CAN in groups these mimic flowers compose, These bells and golden eyes, embathed in dew; Catch the soft blush that warms the early Rose, Or the pale Iris cloud with veins of blue; Copy the scallop’d leaves, and downy stems, And bid the pencil's varied shades arrest Spring's humid buds, and Summer's musky gems: But, save the portrait on my bleeding breast, I have no semblance of that form adored, That form, expressive of a soul divine, So early blighted; and while life is mine, With fond regret, and ceaseless grief deplored– That grief, my angel! with too faithful art Enshrines thy image in thy Mother's heart.