 | Poems |  |
48
To Olivia.
I
Have I from childhood then, been writing,And erst I well could write, inditing,
In scribling ever still delighting;
since first the muse
Did kindly string my infant lyre,
And o'er my mind poetic fire
as kind infuse;
II
Since first young fancy's meteor beam,Did on my dawning genius gleam,
And wrapt me in poetic dream;
as oft I strove
To sing, a sigh, a smile, a tear,
Or haply, an idea dear
of infant love!
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III
What! and no lines to thee addrest,Thou longest known, and loved the best,
In no frail garb of fiction drest,
not one to thee;
For whom I've oft wept, sigh'd, and smil'd,
My sister, mother, friend, and child,
thou all to me!
IV
I who could never learn the art,To write from head and not from heart,
And did my simple thoughts impart
in simpler gear;
And with poetic dereliction.
Took for my muse mine own affection,
for object dear!
V
Associate of my infant plays,Companion of my happiest days,
With whom I ran youth's frolic maze;
with whom I sung
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And on whose sportive accents gay,
I fondly hung!
VI
Sweet friend too of my riper years,Who kindly shares my hopes, my fears,
My joys, my sorrows, smiles, and tears,
my nights, my days;
With whom I share one heart, one mind,
My more than kin and more than kind,
how sing thy praise?
VII
For if the truth I must confess,I better feel than can express,
Nor sentiment in fiction dress,
which I love most;
But that my tenderness of heart
Surpasses my poetic art,
I gladsome boast!
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VIII
Still those gay visions fancy brought,Were with thy lov'd idea fraught,
With you to live I fondly thought,
with you to die;
Nor e'en with life, to part with you,
For in my heavens, Utopia too,
I placed you high!
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