Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray

A blessing on thy years, young Isola;

Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown

To me thy girlish times, a woman grown

Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack

My fancy to believe the almanac,

That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still

remaind a child, and at thy sovereign will

Gambold about our house, as in times past.

Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,

Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent,

Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment:

After some thirty years, spent in such bliss

As this earth can afford, where still we miss

Something of joy entire, mayst thou grow old

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