 | Poems |  |
13
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[There was, in ancient times, a fane]
There was, in ancient times, a fane,
Where Passion's pilgrims often rov'd,
And breath'd, to balm their bosom's pain,
The witching name of her they lov'd.
Where Passion's pilgrims often rov'd,
And breath'd, to balm their bosom's pain,
The witching name of her they lov'd.
Ah! were such shrine but standing now,
How many a youth, with thoughts of flame,
Would own the idol of his vow,
By softly sighing Maia's name!
How many a youth, with thoughts of flame,
Would own the idol of his vow,
By softly sighing Maia's name!
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