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POEMS.
'Twas not because its purer whiteFrom Scythian snow would gain the prize,Which made me for whole hours delightTo watch her bosom's fall and rise:But 'twas because that bosom swelledWith passions free from vice and art;And 'twas because that bosom heldA generous, fond, and feeling heart.
'Twas not because her eyes were bright,Which made me still with rapture viewTheir orbs illume with azure lightEncircling seas of diamond-dew.But 'twas [when first She heard, I pinedWith love, which Honour's laws forbid]Because a tear-drop soft and kindEscaped from either lovely lid.
Oh! I've with her past days alone,Nor bade her lips one kiss confer:And oft we've talked in tenderest toneOf love, yet ne'er of love for her:But sometimes [when her gentle artTo lull my care some means has found]So much her Friendship eased its smart,I've thought, her Love might cure my wound.
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