TO MARIA.
They tell me love’s a transient flame,
Just kept alive by beauty’s ray,
As fleeting as the breath of fame,
Which meets the ear, then dies away.
But if to beauty sense be join’d,
Secure the hallow’d flame shall rest,
Tho’ time, and fell disease, combin’d,
Assay to force it from the breast:
As we then tread the vale of life,
Our souls in unison shall move,
Who most can please be all our strife,
And rivet thus the chains of love.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.