Adele! a name that kindled in the breast
Of France’s first-born of the fairest Muse
A flame in which a thousand colors fuse
And shame the April rainbows of the West;
But I can only stand upon the crest
Of Song’s most sacred Mount and bring excuse
That I have begged, and since the gods refuse,
I steal, and with the theft I thee invest,
A Sun or Moon of Song for all my oceans
Of purest love, an ornament at best—
A bunch of stars—a wreath for my emotions;
But if the gods with sisters dear are blest,
To me they all must come in joy or sorrow,
From me they all must steal, or beg, or borrow.