To

Mine is a wayward lay;

And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string,

Proveth a truant thing,

Whenso some names I love, send it away!

For then, eyes swimming oer,

And clasped hands, and smiles in fondness meant,

Are much more eloquent --

So it had fain begone, and speak no more!

Yet shall it come again,

Ah, friend belovd! if so thy wishes be,

And, with wild melody,

I will, upon thine ear, cadence my strain --

Cadence my simple line,

Unfashiond by the cunning hand of Art,

But coming from my heart,

To tell the message of its love to thine!

As ocean shells, when taken

From Oceans bed, will faithfully repeat

Her ancient music sweet --

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