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To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems, For A New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.

     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.

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