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TO MY WIFE.
DEC. 25, 1844.
Presents enough to suit my mind
But gift to please my taste I find
Not earthly gift could e'er repay
Where golden gifts too poor would shine, Their want expressive be:
No gift I need, while thou art mine,
TO S. M. G.
Scarce arrived at bright sixteen,
TO MRS. BOSE.
Fair Mrs. Bose
Yet wide her kindness reaches;
Through wet and cold
Comes Charley bold,
Well packed with grapes and peaches.
When she is nigh,
Her happy eye
A beam to the dark cloud lendeth;
And when away,
A blessed ray
In the blushing peach she sendeth.
Her words, that flow
In music low,
Are drowned when the storm-wind blusters;
Yet kind words fly
To friends near by,
Disguised in juicy clusters.
Ah! Mrs. Bose,
She keeps too close,
Though far her kindness reaches
That joyous smile
Of the Emerald Isle
Is better than grapes and peaches.
TO A LADY.
UPON RECEIVING A PAIR OF EMBROIDERED SLIPPERS.
Fair fingers, for a poet's feet,
Have woven honours rich and rare; Poetic feet, as is most meet,
Shall celebrate those fingers fair.
Those fingers wrought on a plain illumed
What wonder, if that landscape stole
The grace and beauty beaming o'er, And the soft splendour of the whole, Glowed like a smile I've seen before!
Henceforth, where'er my footsteps stray,