The poem
AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin’s simple tale.
Our sex with guile, and faithless love, Is charg’d, perhaps too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you.