 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | 4. |
|
|
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
ACROSTIC
[Long to her name I've struck the Lyre]
Long to her name I've struck the Lyre;
Unblest, alas! with Pindar's fire,
Can my weak muse one stanza raise
Rightly transcendent charms to praise?
Endowed with ev'ry grace refin'd
That decks the person or the mind,
In vain the Muse might strive to swell
A song that half her praise should tell.
Unblest, alas! with Pindar's fire,
Can my weak muse one stanza raise
Rightly transcendent charms to praise?
Endowed with ev'ry grace refin'd
That decks the person or the mind,
In vain the Muse might strive to swell
A song that half her praise should tell.
Oh! blest with graces rarely found
Like morning rays her smiles around
Delight and life can shower;
Her every charm might win a heart,
And when combin'd they aim the dart
Must gain unbounded power.
Like morning rays her smiles around
Delight and life can shower;
Her every charm might win a heart,
And when combin'd they aim the dart
Must gain unbounded power.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |