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Lettered inside image: "49 | And will not the severe excuse a sigh? | Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep; | Our tears indulged indeed deserve our shame: | Ye that e'er lost an angel! pity me. | Soon as the lustre languish'd in her eye, | Dawning a dimmer day on human sight; | And on her cheek, the residence of spring, | Pale omen sat, and scatter'd fears around | On all that saw, and who would cease to gaze | That once had seen? with haste, parental haste | I flew, I snatch'd her from the rigid north, | Her native bed, on which bleak boreas blew, | And bore her nearer to the sun; the sun, | As if the sun could envy, check'd his beam, | Denied his wonted succour, nor with more | Regret beheld her drooping, than the bells | Of lilies! fairest lilies not so fair. | Queen lilies! and ye painted populace! | Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives; | In morn and evening dew your beauties bathe, | And drink the sun, which gives your cheeks to glow, | And out-blush, mine excepted, every fair; | You gladlier grew, ambitious of her hand | Which often cropp'd your odours, incense meet | To thought so pure: ye lovely fugitives! | Coeval race with man, for man you smile; | Why not smile at him too? you share indeed | His sudden pass, but not his constant pain. | So man is made, nought ministers delight | But what his growing passions can engage;"; lower right: "inv & s | WB"; lower left: "London, Pubd. June 27, 1796, by R Edwards, 142 New Bond Strt."