TO A LADY.
Thy Birthday! yes! the flight of time
Once more hath brought it round,
And something in the shape of rhyme
To greet it must be found—
Meagre that something needs must be,
Yet not, I trust, despised by thee.
If fancy's stream flowed briskly still
As erst in youthful days,
And I with ease could roam at will
Through all her flowery ways,
Small pain 'twould cost a wreath to cull
Which thou would'st deem most beautiful.
But fancy's prime with me is o'er,
My Pegasus grows idle,
And needs the spur, who used to soar,
Despising bit and bridle:
Verse hath indeed become to me
Sore toil and grievous drudgery.
The Muse's service long hath ceased
Its own reward to be,
And thou art from the tax released
Which seemed so hard to thee,
Albeit it had, if freely paid,
The surest inspiration made.
I blame thee not, nor love thee less,—
Nay, more each passing year;
And if true love our portion bless,
What need of fancy here?
Let song, once prized, become at last
A faded dream of days long past.
Yet take this lay, a gift of love,
Nor rate it by its worth,
But by the pains with which it strove
And struggled to the birth;
So thou its poverty shall prize
Above youth's richest fantasies.
October 19th, 1858.
