 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems
|  |
|
TO A FRIEND.
Oh! poetry, sweet maid, who only deigns
To smile upon the good, the innocent;
To thee I fain would sing, to thee who oft
Hast scattered roses o'er the rigid face
Of youthful woe, for youth has still its griefs,
And separation from the mother dear,
Who oft has watched us in the hour of sleep,
Will wet with sorrow's tear the cheek of youth,
And teach his glowing bosom to repine.
Oh! Ross, to thee I now address my song;
To thee, companion of my earliest lays,
My earliest efforts to awake the lyre.
And though no glowing numbers here are found,
The heart that dictates to my artless pen
Is not less warm, less capable of friendship;
And though my humble muse cannot presume
To claim a sapling from Apollo's wreath,
Yet, as the music of the tuneful choir
May tempt the sparrow to pour forth his lay,
And imitate the warblings of the thrush,
So I, enchanted with the lofty lays
Of abler poets, may attempt to touch
The humble lyre of a rustic muse,
And pour to thee my artless melody.
Perhaps in future hours, when opprest
With all the cares and crosses of the world,
Sweet memory will recal the blissful days
I spent with thee, and with the pensive muse.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems
| |
|
