Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/221

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Since the Moorish bard had brought his claim, 'Mid these Northern halls, to the meed of fame.

The earliest beauty of the rose, Waking from moonlight repose, In morning air and dew to steep The blush of her voluptuous sleep; This was her cheek: and for her eye, Gaze thou upon the midnight sky, And choose its fairest star, the one Thou deem'st most lovely and most lone: Her lip, oh! never flower of spring Had smile of such sweet blandishing.