SOON shall these bounteous springs thy wish bestow,
Soon in each feature sprightly health shall glow;
Thy eyes regain their fire, thy limbs their grace,
And roses join the lilies in thy face.
But say, sweet maid, what waters can remove
The pangs of cold despair, of hopeless love?
The deadly star which lights th' autumnal skies
Shines not so bright, so fatal as those eyes.
The pains which from their influence we endure,
Not Brewster, glory of his art, can cure.
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