Page:1808 Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne.pdf/9



tho' with feeble hand I strike the lyre, I will not sigh to gain the poet's bays; Or soar with Genius on the wing of fire, If gentle bosoms prize my artless lays.

For still, inspir'd by soft affection's glow, Or true to melting gratitude sincere, "Warm from the heart," my native measures flow, Unknown to fame, yet still to friendship dear.