MY FAIR.

THE dews of morn, with touch so pure,

Caress with jewelled drops my fair;

Should I aspire, I am not sure,

At any rate I would not dare.

The zephyrs wanton with her hair,

And slyly revel in its gold;

I'd do it too, but I'd not dare,

I never could be half so bold.

I saw a rose once on her breast,

Ah, me! how bold to nestle there;

I'd soothe me in that snowy nest,

But, ah! I'd never, never dare.

The wintry morn, with thoughtless touch,

Diffused her cheek with crimson flush;

Ah, shame! I'd dare not half so much,

I would not cause my fair to blush.

S.