LINES
Written on one of the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in England.
| As he who sails afar on southern seas, Catches rich odor on the evening breeze, Turns to the shore whence comes the perfum'd air, And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there— Thus, when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet, Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair, And know, though all unseen, a friend is there |
IMOGENE.