Like Fanny’s sweetest flower—and that was lost
In one cold hour, by one harsh morning frost.
In some soft evenings, mid the garden’s bloom,
Would William wait, till Fanny chanced to come;
And Fanny came, by chance it may be; still,
There was a gentle bias of the will,
Such as the soundest minds may act upon,
When motives of superior kind are gone.
There then they met, and Master William’s look 130
Was the less timid, for he held a book;