'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, I see you are treading the verge of the sea: And now! ah, I see it--you just now are stooping To pick up the keep-sake intended for me. If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven; And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending, The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given; It had not created a warmer emotion Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.