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II.—THE POEM
Her brow upon thy pages bent,
Thy volume, Poet, in her hands;
She knows not, she so innocent,
How like a pictured maid she stands.
Thy volume, Poet, in her hands;
She knows not, she so innocent,
How like a pictured maid she stands.
Sing, Singer, to thy heart's content!
Paint, Painter! shall he rival thee?
Twin arts have equal graces lent:
So art thou, Maiden, fair—and free.
Paint, Painter! shall he rival thee?
Twin arts have equal graces lent:
So art thou, Maiden, fair—and free.
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