TO MRS. T. FANCOURT,

I love not yon gay, painted flower, Of bold and coarsely blended dye, But one, whose nicely varied power May long detain the curious eye.

I love the tones that softly rise, And in a fine accordance close; That waken no abrupt surprise, Nor leave us to inert repose.

I love the moon's pure, holy light, Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream; The gale, fresh from the wings of night, Which drinks the early solar beam;

The smile of heaven, when storms subside, When the moist clouds first break away; The sober tints of even-tide, Ere yet forgotten by the day.

Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please, And set my wearied spirit free: And one who takes delight in these, Can never fail of loving thee!