Sixteen
I
n Clementina’s artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see,—
And are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?
Lucilla asks, if that be all,
Have I not culled as sweet before?
Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.
I now behold another scene,
Where Pleasure beams with heaven’s own light,—
More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright:
Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,
And Modesty, who, when she goes,
Is gone forever!