77 
That thorn may touch some tender vein, 
And crimson o’er the wounded part; 
Unheeded too, a transient pain 
Will flush the cheek and thrill the heart! 
On Beauty’s lids the gem-like tear 
Oft sheds its evanescent ray, 
But scarce is seen to sparkle, ere 
’T is chased by beaming smiles away! 
Just so the Blush is formed, and flies, 
Nor owns reflection’s calm control, 
It comes — it deepens — fades — and dies — 
A gush of feeling from the soul! 
