To Mrs.

'Tis now the twelfth ill-fated year,
Since from your presence I was banish'd;
And yet — the fact, I think, is clear,
That my affection has not vanish'd.

When absent you can smile on me,
Away fly all the Hermit's wrinkles;
The eye of age you then should see,
How youthfully its pleasure twinkles!

When that lov'd hand, and flowing style,
Assur'd me last that you were better; —
You 'll not believe me, and will smile,
I kiss'd, and through a tear, the letter.

When of your sufferings you complain,
The rhime, tho' just, no more can please me;
For sympathy attracts the pain,
My temper's lost, and feathers teaze me.

But who can tell the Hermit's bliss,
The only joy that 's worth possessing,
When Fairies drop unseen the kiss,
And you accept their wafted blessing?

With clear, but unsuspected view,
I soothe your pillow, and revere it,
Fond as when Hymen laugh'd and flew;
If 'tis not Love, 'tis very near it .
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