To

Mine is a wayward lay;

And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string,

Proveth a truant thing,

Whenso some names I love, send it away!

For then, eyes swimming oer,

And clasped hands, and smiles in fondness meant,

Are much more eloquent --

So it had fain begone, and speak no more!

Yet shall it come again,

Ah, friend belovd! if so thy wishes be,

And, with wild melody,

I will, upon thine ear, cadence my strain --

Cadence my simple line,

Unfashiond by the cunning hand of Art,

But coming from my heart,

To tell the message of its love to thine!

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