 | The forest minstrel |  |
TO HIM WHO PRESENTED TO ME A PEN.
Dear friend, till now I had not dipp'd in ink
The diamond point of this, thy gift to me,
And now my hand and heart would dedicate
The earliest tracery of thy gift to thee.
The diamond point of this, thy gift to me,
And now my hand and heart would dedicate
The earliest tracery of thy gift to thee.
Oh, that my soul were worthy of thy gift,
Then would I register immortal lays,
And set thy name in pure and dazzling gems,
Amid a trophy of Parnassian bays.
Then would I register immortal lays,
And set thy name in pure and dazzling gems,
Amid a trophy of Parnassian bays.
But 'tis not mine—my friend, it is not mine,
To charm in living numbers, from the lyre,
Such words as burn themselves into the soul,
And live for ever, like heaven's altar-fire;
To charm in living numbers, from the lyre,
Such words as burn themselves into the soul,
And live for ever, like heaven's altar-fire;
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Nor may I hope to write the hymn that flows
With murmur of sweet music, evermore,
Like clear cold waters with their silvery tone,
And holy blessing to the flowery shore.
With murmur of sweet music, evermore,
Like clear cold waters with their silvery tone,
And holy blessing to the flowery shore.
It needs no lay of mine to keep thy worth
Green in the temple of immortal fame,
For thou hast placed it where it shall endure
When earth has lost the echo of my name.
Green in the temple of immortal fame,
For thou hast placed it where it shall endure
When earth has lost the echo of my name.
But with thy precious gift, my generous friend,
I grave thy memory in the spirit-shrine,
Where Gratitude shall wreath it with her hymn
Of living incense, to the Friend divine.
I grave thy memory in the spirit-shrine,
Where Gratitude shall wreath it with her hymn
Of living incense, to the Friend divine.
| The forest minstrel | |