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TO MISS KELLY.
You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KEN
QUEEN-BIRD that sittest on thy shining nest,
Was it some sweet device of Faery
while Soft soothing things, which might enforce
despair To drop the murdering knife, and let go by His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade Still court the foot-steps of the fair-hair'd maid? Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? While I forlorn do wander reckless where, And ’mid my wanderings meet no Anņa there.
METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd