Kenwyn, Truro, March 1, 1814.
MY DEAR SIR,
I know not how I can sufficiently acknowledge your kindness. I will lose no time in transcribing "The Fair Isabel" for you; and I will gladly trust "the Minstrel" to your correction.
Meanwhile I present you with a few lines written on the eve of Valentine for one of my little boys, who had sent his dancing partner a sprig of peach-blossom (or rather buds) a few days before. The thought, thus accidentally suggested, struck me as original. Yet, I suspect, that cannot be. The melting peach is too obvious a comparison, not to have often occurred on similar occasions. There is, however, unity and something like epigrammatic point in this little extempore thing.
That little sprig of young peach-blossom,
The promise fair of sweets to come,
Was sent, in sooth, by me:
And, tho' its tints be all too weak
To emulate thy lips and cheek,
It yet resembles thee!
Then, bid me picture the fond hour,
When, like the fruit, as now the flower,
Nor plac'd beyond my reach,
I may salute thee, rich and ripe,
And (more delicious still the type)
May pluck — a melting peach.