LADY! to decorate thy marriage morn, Rare gems, and flowers, and lofty songs are brought; Thou the plain utterance of a Poet's thought, Thyself at heart a Poet, wilt not scorn: The name, into whose splendour thou wert born, Thou art about to change for that which stands Writ on the proudest work * that mortal hands Have raised from earth, Religion to adorn. Take it rejoicing, -- take with thee thy dower, Britain's best blood, and Beauty ever new, Being of mind; may the cool northern dew Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower! Mingling thy English nature, pure and true, With the bright growth of each Italian hour. |