MY Charlotte is a peerless gem, Fit for a monarch's bride; She'd better grace his diadem, Than all the world beside. The gift of Beauty, gift of God, From Heaven to Earth sent down, To cheer their hearts who, tired, plod This life's dull, weary round,— That gift is hers; and far she shines Above all other belles, Innocence, Truth, in plainest lines, Cast o'er her face their spells. Her smiles like Angels' visits are, They're few and far between; But, then, they 're lovelier by far, Than others' smiles, I ween! |