To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems

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

No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail;I send you more than India boasts,In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless loveIs charg'd, perhaps too true;But may, dear Maid, each lover proveAn Edwin still to you!