 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
239
LINES ON A POETESS,
Who was advised to write less rapidly.
Her muse is like the bird that rovesThrough Eastern India's fragrant groves;
His trembling plumage burns in flight—
A living rainbow, rare and bright!
And swifter as those pinions fly,
More warm the glow, more rich the dye;
But when with slow and measured wave
They fall upon the balmy air,
The hues his lightning-motion gave
Grow dim, and fade unnoticed there.
And when he furls those changeful wings,
All wearied with his glorious play,
Ah! one by one the shining rings
Of radiant colour die away!
And dark and dull, you ne'er would know
The wealth of glory lost below;
240
Still wears its own resplendent hue;
And once again, unfurled and free,
Would flash its treasure on your view.
Her muse is like the sunlit bird,—
Then bid her not its wanderings stay,
Lest all the light that flight has stirred—
Like his—in rest should die away.
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |