TO
THE
BEAUTEOUS
MISS
H—L—D
.
FAR
distant
from
Brittannia's
lofty
Isle
,
What
shall
I
find
to
make
the
Genius
smile
?
The
bubbling
fountains
lose
the
power
to
please
,
The
rocky
cataracts
,
the
shady
trees
,
The
juicy
fruitage
of
enchanting
hue
,
Whose
luscious
virtues
England
never
knew
;
The
variegated
Daughters
of
the
Land
,
Whose
numbers
Flora
strows
with
bounteous
hand
;
The
verdant
vesture
of
the
smiling
fields
,
All
the
rich
pleasures
Nature's
store-house
yields
,
Have
all
their
powers
to
wake
the
chorded
string
:
But
still
they're
subjects
that
the
Muse
can
sing
.
H—l—d
more
beauteous
than
the
God
of
Day
,
Her
name
can
quicken
and
awake
the
Lay
;
Rouse
the
soft
Muse
,
from
indolence
and
ease
;
To
live
,
to
love
,
and
rouse
her
powers
to
please
.
In
vain
would
Phoebus
,
did
not
H—l—d
rise
:
'Tis
her
bright
eyes
that
gilds
the
Eastern
skies
;
'Tis
she
alone
deprives
us
of
the
light
;
And
when
she
slumbers
,
then
indeed
'tis
night
.
To
tell
the
sep'rate
beauties
of
her
'
face
Would
stretch
Eternity's
remotest
space
,
And
want
a
more
than
man
,
to
pen
the
line
;
I
rest
;
let
this
suffice
,
dear
H—l—d's
all
divine
.