 | Poems |  |
42
TO ELLEN.
Ellen, if old St. ValentineShould ever from the grave arise,
He ne'er could brook one glance of thine;
But, conquered by those matchless eyes,
The saint himself would be thy prize.
What wonder then if such as I,
Not half so holy or so wise,
Should at thy feet despairing lie?
But never mind the how or why:
I can love no one else but thee;
Oh, could I raise my hopes so high,
That thou shouldst say the same of me!
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