GEORGE DARLEY 648 The Phoenix
FAST her amber blood doth flow From the heart-wounded Incense Tree, Fast as earth's deep-embosom'd woe In silent rivulets to the sea'
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��Beauty may weep her fair first-born. Perchance in as resplendent tears,
Such golden dcwdrops bow the corn When the stern sickleman appears:
But Of such perfume to a bower Never allured sweet-seeking bee,
As to sip fast that nectarous shower A thirstier minstrel drew in me!
��The Solitary Lyre
WHEREFORE, unlaurelPd Boy, Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire, With a sad kind of joy
Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre?
The melancholy winds
Pour through unnumbered reeds their idle woes, And every Naiad finds
A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows.
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