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But, lovely child! thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!
And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a child'ess one would give,
If thou in their still home would'st live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, “ This babe is mine!":
In time thou would'st become the same
As their own child,—all but the name!

How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled
By thee, their fond, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirred
When thy first broken words were heard ;
Words, that, inspired by Heaven, expressed
The transports dancing in thy breast !
And for thy smile !-thy lip, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze are kindling now.

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