Emma! ’tis early time for thee
To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,
That breathe around the rosy shrine
Of honest old Saint Valentine.
Too young art thou for strains of love;
’Tis not thy passion I would move;
Instead of lover’s strains, I send
The cordial wishes of a friend.
Nobly has Nature done her duty,
To give thee of thy mother’s beauty
So large a share—oh! then be thine
The mental charms that in her shine!
And may thy father’s taste refin’d
Still add new graces to thy mind;
And may’st thou to each charm impart
The gen’rous frankness of his heart.
Then, my sweet Emma! thou shall move
In many a heart more genuine love
Than ever warm’d poetic line,
Or sigh’d in any Valentine.