To Laura

Miss Flaxman

From us my Laura it is said
The laughing loves away are fled,
The rose of youth its leaves have shed
And left alone the thorn.
Mistaken friends, it is not so,
The wanton loves indeed may go,
The rose of youth may cease to glow,
But yet we’re not forlorn,

For sure in hearts so warm as ours
Affection’s sweetest, fairest flow’rs
Will bloom to cheer our wintry hours
And never, know decay,
Besides, my dearest friend will own
The little loves are not all flown,
That one remains that’s all our own
And he will never stray.

The loves that flew, were wanton, wild,
But this is tractable and mild,
Of tend’rest friendship, he’s the child
And this sweet child is ours.
Then while each fond, each faithful breast,
Shall harbour such a gentle guest,
Still, still, my Laura we are blest
Our path still graced with flowers.