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A CALLIROE
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To Callirhoe at Lausanne
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Her face was veil'd Yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, in her person shin'd
But O! − I wak'd
(Milton)
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I twine, far distant from my Tuscan grove,
The lily chaste, the rose that breathes of love,
The myrtle leaf and Laura's hallow'd bay,
The deathless flow'rs that bloom o'er Sappho's clay;
For thee, Callirhoe! − Yet by Love and years
I learn how Fancy wakes from joy to tears;
How Memory pensive, 'reft of hope, attends
The Exile's path, and bids him fear new friends. −
Long may the garland blend its varying hue
With thy bright tresses, and bud ever-new
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With all Spring's odours; with Spring's light be drest,
Inhale pure fragrance from thy virgin breast!
And when thou find'st that Youth and Beauty fly
As heavenly meteors from our dazzled eye,
Still may the garland shed perfume, and shine
While Laura's mind and Sappho's heart are thine.
Then should I find far from my friends repose,
Nor hand, save thine, drop o'er my shroud a rose,
O! may I hear there strike my funeral hour
Where the blue lake reflects thy summer bower.
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There I shall sleep in flow'ry plains; and there
The nightingal will join the secret prayer,
The night breeze murmurs gliding o'er the wave,
And thy name rising out the stranger's grave.
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