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BELINDA.
149
BELINDA;
OR,
THE LOVE-LETTER.
Another soft and scented page,
Fill'd with more honied words!
What motives to a pilgrimage
A shrine like mine affords!
I know, before I break the seal,
The words that I shall find:—
"The wound which you alone can heal—
So fair, yet so unkind!"
There, take your fortune on the wind!
Ah, how the breeze has borne
(As if our malice were combined)
The fragments I have torn!
So let the vows they offer pass—
Vows fugitive and vain;
I should as soon expect the glass
My image to retain.
