To Miss Logan
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.