1 All this still legible in memory's page, Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, * Garth. 222 AN EPISTLE TO A LADY IN FRANCE. Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE. MADAM, A STRANGER'S purpose in these lays |