OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER.

Fair hand! that can on virgin paper write, Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white; Whose travel o'er that silver field does show Like track of leverets in morning snow. Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil, Without the help of colours or of oil! For though a painter boughs and leaves can make, 'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake; Whose breath salutes your new-created grove, Like southern winds, and makes it gently move. Orpheus could make the forest dance; but you Can make the motion and the forest too.