Which nerv'd the weary dove o'er floods unbless’d
The olive-leaf to pluck, and gain the ark of rest.
XXXII.
Wave your fresh leaflets, and with beauty glow;
And wake the anthem in your choral bowers,
Birds, whose warm hearts with living praise o'erflow;
For she who loved your ever-varied dyes,
Mingling her sweet tones with your symphonies,
Seeks higher bliss than charms like yours bestow—
A home unchangeable—an angel's wing—
Where is no fading flower, nor lute with jarring string.
XXXIII.
A soft illusion with her reveries blent,
New charms dispell'd her solitary care,
And hope's fresh dew-drops gleam'd where'er she went;
Earth seem'd to glow with Eden's purple light,
The fleeting days glanced by on pinions bright,
And every hour a rainbow lustre lent;
While, with his tones of music in her ear,
Love's eloquence inspired the high-born cavalier.
XXXIV.
For kindling knowledge, and for taste refined,
A guiding lamp, whose bright mysterious flame
Led on to loftier heights the aspiring mind.
Hence flow'd the idiom of a foreign tongue
All smoothly o'er her lip; old history flung
Its annal wide, like banner on the wind,
