Sonnet. Inscribed to Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire

'TIS NOT thy flowing hair of orient gold,

Nor those bright eyes, like sapphire gems that glow;

Nor cheek of blushing rose, nor breast of snow,

The varying passions of the heart could hold:

Those locks, too soon, shall own a silv'ry ray,

Those radiant orbs their magic fires forego;

Insatiate TIME shall steal those tints away,

Warp thy fine form, and bend thy beauties low:

But the rare wonders of thy polish'd MIND

Shall mock the empty menace of decay;

The GEM, that in thy SPOTLESS BREAST enshrin'd,

Glows with the light of intellectual ray;

Shall, like the Brilliant, scorn each borrow'd aid,

And deck'd with native lustre NEVER FADE!