To the Princess Lucretia

From London Magazine THY unripe youth seemed like the purple rose That to the warm ray opens not its breast, But, hiding still within its mossy vest, Dares not its virgin beauties to disclose; Or like Aurora, when the heaven first glows,— For likeness from above will suit thee best,— When she with gold kindles each mountain crest, And o’er the plain her pearly mantle throws. No loss from time thy riper age receives, Nor can young beauty decked with art’s display Rival the native graces of thy form: Thus lovelier is the flower whose full-blown leaves Perfume the air, and more than orient ray The sun’s meridian glories blaze and warm.