"Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mɪᴍᴏsᴀ stands, From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands; Oft as light clouds o’er-pass the Summer-glade, Alarm’d she trembles at the moving shade; And feels, alive through all her tender form, The whisper’d murmurs of the gathering storm; Shuts her sweet eye-lids to approaching night; And hails with freshen’d charms the rising light.Veil’d, with gay decency and modest pride, Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride; There her soft vows unceasing love record, Queen of the bright seraglio of her Lord.— So sinks or rises with the changeful hour The liquid silver in its glassy tower. So turns the needle to the pole it loves, With fine librations quivering as it moves."