PROLOGUE.
Small hope—perchance small wish have I
To leave a poet's name behind,
Inscribed upon my country's mind
In characters too deep to die.
My genius is not of the brood
Which spreads its wings and soars sublime
Beyond the bounds of space and time,
Nor have I well the Muses woo'd,
Nor served them with a perfect heart,
Still with such melody content
As nature to my fingering lent,
With scant appliances of art.
Nor have I lack'd my full reward—
The pleasure given to gentle minds,—
The genuine sympathy which binds
The souls of listener and of bard.
If some half-conscious thirst for fame
With simpler wishes hath been blent,
Such have I won;—I am content
Alive to bear the poet's name.
What profit would be mine when dead
From laurels planted round my grave?
What injury, though fool or knave
Should spurn it with contemptuous tread?
If some chance words escape decay—
A thought—an image here and there,
By gentle hearts preserved with care,
When I from earth have past away—
So be it; more is gain'd than sought;
Meanwhile let me enjoy the good
Which since my life's young lustihood
Until its wane, the Muse hath brought;
High friendships—sympathies benign
From some who o'er the hearts of men
Reign deathless—minds of ampler ken
And insight more profound than mine.
Content with what I have and am,
Nor envying them what they may be,
This verse I consecrate to three
Great spirits—“in memoriam.”
