To Miss S—— T———.
When morn returns with blushing pride,
I long to range the mountains side,
To hail with joy returning day,
And catch the woodlark’s melting lay.
When Eve descends with balmy breath,
And whispering breezes fan the heath,
I fly to hear, on yonder plain,
The bird of Evening’s dulcet strain:
Thy notes, dear S———, to mine ear,
Are sweeter, than the woodlark’s air.
And the FIRST SONGSTRESS of the choir,
Is discord to thy melting lyre.
NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.