Pardon, sweet lady, if my daring fingers
Sweep from my lyre one song to love and thee!
'T will be like night winds on the harp that lingers,
A strain of pure but mournful melody;
Without the vain, presumptuous hope, to waken
An answering echo in thy gentle breast,—
'T would be too blissful, by the world forsake,
To gain thy pity, on thy heart to rest!
Such cannot be my fate, nor such my dreaming,
I only ask to love thee unreproved,
To meet thy calm eye calmly on me beaming,
To look for kindness, not to be beloved.
So many gay dreams of my youth have perished,
So many ties been rudely torn from me,
So many hopes been crushed I fondly cherished,
'T were mad, indeed, to dream of winning thee.
Troy, Sept. 28. WILKINSON.
Troy Daily Whig. October 3, 1843: 2 col 1.