XX

O sacred head that felt her queenly hand!
O regal brow, round which her arms have wound
A prouder circle than was ever bound
On royal temples! O blest features, fanned
By her sweet breath, and warmed by glances bland
As dawn's first look! O lips, whose narrow round
Has held more bliss than mortals ever found
In the wide bounds of Eden--lips that warmed
As the soft pressure of her kisses smote
A joy too strong for nature through my frame,
And a deep sense of conscious guilt and shame
At my unworthiness! Ah! shall I dote
On my imperfect self, and proudly float,
Borne by her glories, far above my fame?