That fills thy budding years to woman's prime.
Thou stand'st midway, as on a height sublime,
Sweet record here, sweet promise there as mild
Of childish days, of girlhood undefiled,
To lure thee on; heaven help thee now to climb
With fairest hope, as erst, the onward part
Of life's sad upland course that still is thine!
Had I one wish, fresh gathered from the heart,
To hang with votive sweets at friendship's shrine,
I'd pray—and yet, methinks, if thou wert mine,