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As late each flower that sweetest blows
Around his brows a beamy wreath
I softly seized the unguarded Power,
But when unweeting of the guile
Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight
“ And O!” he cried—“Of magic kind
One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed -
Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale,
Too well those lovely lips disclose
O fair! O graceful ! bid them prove
TO A YOUNG ASS.
ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.
Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race !