Он could my mind, unfolded in my page, Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year, Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy; Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here. 1793. (vii) |
Он could my mind, unfolded in my page, Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year, Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy; Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here. 1793. (vii) |