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TO ELIZA.

And wilt thou think of him who traced
This tributary lay,
Or will his image be effaced,
As foot-prints in the dew are chased
By the next solar ray?
Can memory's light become so dim,
That thou wilt not remember him?

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I will not libel thus a heart,
Where every grace resides,
Where modest nature, void of art,
Directed still by virtue's chart,
In peerless state presides:
She shall thy silent prompter be,
Sometimes, dear girl, to think of me.