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TO HARRIET * * * * *
Whose is the love, that gleaming through the world, Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?
Harriet! on thine:—thou wert my purer mind;
Thine are these early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.
Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
Each flowret gathered in my heart,
It consecrates to thine.