Pure are the orient tints of early bloom,
That o’er thy cheek, in soft suffusion, play;
Bright are the streaming lustres, which illume
The silent eloquence those eyes convey.
So pure, so bright, as opening life aspires,
Dear ISABELLA, be thy happy youth!
And may thy soul’s hereditary fires
Guide thee indevious to the shrines of Truth,
And set thy pleasures on a scale so high,
That all which frolic Beauty’s hope impels,
Insidious Flattery’s betraying joy,
Intrigue’s light page, and Dissipation’s spells,
Shall meet seduceless the undazzled gaze,
That Nature’s charms and Wisdom’s page explores
Beneath pale moons while classic Camus strays,
And when red Morning blushes on his shores!
So shall thy heart, which mild Affection fills,
Be, when fierce Passion’s fatal fervour glows,
Cold as the summit of Helvetian hills
When the sun strikes their unobeying snows.
Then borne o’er each vain wish and idle care,
By the mind’s soaring and superior powers,
Thy painless sighs shall be as vernal air,
Thy tears as dews exhaling from the flowers.