By craft or outrage might be won.
That letter, where I seem to view
Sir Endo's lines precise and true,
Of forger's hands the fruit may be,
Or penn'd for others, not for thee.
But the mild lustre of her eye,
Soft as the tint of noontide sky,
The grace that once her lips array'd,
Nor force nor fraud could thine have made.
The semblance of Elmina dead