I BOURNEMOUTH Quite given o’er to shameful destinies Yet may I muse what graces once were thine Whose little brooks descend the tawny chine So silver-silent on their gold degrees; Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seas Have drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shine Under the coif of heaven that doth confine Thy tender headlands and their tress of trees. Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand, Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown, So fallen;—doth it much import what hand Cast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown, Or, on this lovely and reluctant land, Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?
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