My godlike friend-nay, do not stare,
You think the phraseis odd-like;
But God is love, the saints declare,
Then surely thou art god-like.
And is thy ardour still the same?
And kindled still at Anna?
Others may boast a partial flame,
But thou art a volcano!
Ev’n Wedlock asks not love beyond
Death’s tie-dissolving portal;
Butthou, omnipotently fond,
May’st promise love immortal!
Thy wounds such healing powers defy,
Such symptoms dire attend them,
That last great antihectic try-
Marriage perhaps may mend them.
Sweet Anna has anair-a grace,
Divine, magnetic, touching:
She talks, she charms-but who can trace
The process of bewitching?