To Miss Logan

Available for over a year

Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n. 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.