PRoud thus to wait, — each colour to prepare,
But wants the art — to paint the blooming fair.
Around her neck, in innocence she smiles,
And fondly — hides herself in infant wiles.
The maid obsequious — scarcely in her arms,
Restrains the babe — her slender hold alarms.
Choose then this groupe, dispos'd by softest shades
And playful win them to their evening beds.
But how the mind — the mother to express?
Who fondly folds her infant to her breast.
A vain attempt — a figure far too fine —
A Raphael's hand could scarcely trace each line.