To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems, for a New Year’s Gift
AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin’s simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg’d, perhaps too true; But may, dear Maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you!
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