Duganne's Poetical Works Autograph edition. Seventy-five Copies |
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 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
Rest thee, mine Harp! my wearied hand I fling,
With scarce an impulse, o'er each quivering string!
My thankless task hath reached its natural term—
Wisdom its fruit—though Folly was its germ.
Not mine to scathe with bitter jest the heart,
Or reckless launch the slanderer's jealous dart;—
Not mine to prostitute the gift of song,
To wreak revenge for real or fancied wrong;—
Behind my jest no covert malice slept—
From out my praise no inuendo crept:
An honest Anglo-Saxon round of blows
I've dealt alike upon my friends and foes;
And, if I struck full oft within the guard—
Be sure, I might have struck ten times as hard!
With scarce an impulse, o'er each quivering string!
My thankless task hath reached its natural term—
Wisdom its fruit—though Folly was its germ.
Not mine to scathe with bitter jest the heart,
Or reckless launch the slanderer's jealous dart;—
Not mine to prostitute the gift of song,
To wreak revenge for real or fancied wrong;—
Behind my jest no covert malice slept—
From out my praise no inuendo crept:
An honest Anglo-Saxon round of blows
I've dealt alike upon my friends and foes;
And, if I struck full oft within the guard—
Be sure, I might have struck ten times as hard!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |