Lady! at thy strong bidding did we trace These magic rhymes of soul-wrought Poesy, (Drawn from the narrow fount of Memory), Hoping (albeit unworthy) for the grace Of thy kind favour, as a resting-place From this sweet labour. Yes! even yet the smile Of Woman's favour can assuage a while, Tho' the heart's anguish it may ne'er efface! And oh! withhold not — guiltless, guiltless one!— Withhold not thou thy distant friendliness From him who never can be more than friend, (Ah that thy tongue could say he were not less); Friendship may soothe, tho' the heart's love be gone; —But why these tears? — A Poet's strain attend. Cambridge, July 17.
