 | [To little Henry, in] The hare-bell |  |
91
TO LITTLE HENRY,
LISTENING TO A POEM BY THE AUTHOR.
Dear must be his country's praise,
To the bard she crowns with bays;
Sweet the echo of his name,
From the clarion voice of Fame:—
Mine a tribute dearer still,
For a holier flattery flows
From thy voice, that, like a rill,
Music makes where'er it goes.
To the bard she crowns with bays;
Sweet the echo of his name,
From the clarion voice of Fame:—
Mine a tribute dearer still,
For a holier flattery flows
From thy voice, that, like a rill,
Music makes where'er it goes.
Child of Genius! in thine eyes,
I can see thy soul arise;
All the poetry of feeling,
In their changeful depths revealing;
And the verse that wins from thee
Earnest look—approval free—
Playing on a lyre so fine
As that guileless heart of thine—
Waking, from its softest sigh,
Melody in low reply—
Must have music in its flow,
Purer, truer than I know;
Gifted with a grace divine,
By a Higher power than mine.
I can see thy soul arise;
All the poetry of feeling,
In their changeful depths revealing;
And the verse that wins from thee
Earnest look—approval free—
Playing on a lyre so fine
As that guileless heart of thine—
Waking, from its softest sigh,
Melody in low reply—
Must have music in its flow,
Purer, truer than I know;
Gifted with a grace divine,
By a Higher power than mine.
| [To little Henry, in] The hare-bell | |