1.
Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.
2.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.
3.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love,
Is charg'd - perhaps too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.

Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, though scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile, and faithless love,
Is charged - perhaps too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you.