SONNET TO MARIA.
How oft, dear maid, enamour’d bards have sung,
The blooming beauties of their fav’rite fair;
Petrarch to Laura’s charms his lyre has strung,
And Prior’s muse oft braided Cloe’s hair.
Let others sing the cheek, whose roseate hue
Transcends the blushing beauties of the rose,
The lip, like cherries dipt in balmy dew,
From whence a breath more sweet than violets flows.
Whilst I, a youthful bard, to fleeting fame,
And flattery’s menial arts alike unknown;
All common-place analogy disclaim,
Comparing you---unto yourself alone:
For who but folly’s sons would needless toil,
To place the sterling gem beneath the foil?
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.