Perhaps this is not love, but yet

Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,

And tells a tale, it never feels;

Deceit, the guilty lips impart,

And hush the mandates of the heart,

But soul's interpreters, the eyes

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.

As thus our glances oft convers'd,

And all our bosoms felt, rehears'd,

No spirit from within reprov'd us,

Say rather, "'twas the spirit mov'd us."

Though what they utter'd, I repress,

Yet, I conceive, thou'lt partly guess;

For, as on thee, my memory ponders,

Perchance, to me thine also wanders;

This for myself, at least I'll say,

[pg 35]

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