49

And will not the severe excuse a sigh ?
Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep ;
Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame :
Ye that e'er lost an angel ! pity me.

Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human sight;
And on her cheek, the residence of spring,
Pale omen sat, and scatter'd fears around
On all that saw, and who would cease to gaze
That once had seen ? with haste, parental haste
I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid north,
Her native bed, on which bleak boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the sun ; the sun,
As if the sun could envy, check'd his beam,
Denied his wonted succour, nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
Of lilies ! fairest lilies not so fair.

Queen lilies ! and ye painted populace !
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives ;
In morn and evening dew your beauties bathe,
And drink the sun, which gives your cheeks to glow,
And out-blush, mine excepted, every fair ;
You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand
Which often cropp'd your odours, incense meet
To thought so pure : ye lovely fugitives !
Coëval race with man, for man you smile ;
Why not smile at him too ? you share indeed
His sudden pass, but not his constant pain.

So man is made, nought ministers delight
But what his glowing passions can engage ;

London, Pub. June 27, 1926, by R. Edwards, 143 New Bond St.

49

And will not the severe excuse a sigh?
Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep;
Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame:
Ye that e'er lost an angel ! pity me.

Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye,
Dawning a dimmer day on human sight;
And on her cheek, the residence of spring,
Pale omen sat, and scatter'd fears around
On all that saw, and who would cease to gaze
That once had seen ? with haste, parental haste
I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid north,
Her native bed, on which bleak boreas blew,
And bore her nearer to the sun; the sun,
As if the sun could envy, check'd his beam,
Denied his wonted succour, nor with more
Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells
Of lilies ! fairest lilies not so fair.

Queen lilies ! and ye painted populace !
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives;
In morn and evening dew your beauties bathe,
And drink the sun, which gives your cheeks to glow,
And out-blush, mine excepted, every fair;
You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand
Which often cropp'd your odours, incense meet
To thought so pure: ye lovely fugitives !
Coeval race with man, for man you smile ;
Why not smile at him too ? you share indeed
His sudden pass, but not his constant pain.

So man is made, nought ministers delight
But what his glowing passions can engage;

P.O. 1297 B1978.43.1401 Obj. 2327 -0001

apCARD 101

(These charts are for monitor calibration only)

Yale Center for British Art, 2010