University of Virginia Library

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171

TO MRS. L**,

With a little book of Poems in manuscript.

Although my foot could never tread
On proud Parnassus' lofty head,
And though I 've long essayed in vain
E'en on its side a seat to gain;
I 've often knelt in supplication
Before the Muse for inspiration,
Who turned aside her partial ear,
And all my prayers refused to hear.
And, though my steps did never falter,
While seeking flowers to deck her altar,
Before the offerings could be made,
My voice grew faint, my wreaths would fade;
My sacrifices were rejected,
Or passed unnoticed and neglected.
Though many an hour and many a day,
I 've sighed for power to sing and play;
I never sought to strike the lyre
With half the feeling, half the fire
With which to-day I fain would sing,
And sweep for thee, the tuneful string—
For notes so deep, so sweet and clear,
As I would pour into thine ear!
And yet my voice was ne'er so low,
My trembling hand ne'er half so slow,

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172

My fearful lyre so loth to pour
Its timid numbers forth, before!
Where genius, science, taste refined
Are centred in one favorite's mind,
And she may listen to a throng
Of all the darling sons of song,
It ill befits me to appear;
And if I come, 't is but with fear,—
The feeble taper's shrinking blaze
Amid the sun's resplendent rays!
I never wished for flowers so sweet
As I would scatter at thy feet.
But all I bring are wild and pale,
And humble natives of the vale,
Which I have plucked, where oft I stray,
On fancy's wild and devious way,
In playful, or in pensive mood,
As chanced to pass my solitude.

I know they soon would droop and die
Beneath the world's stern, withering eye.
But since thy wish is to receive them,
With joy, in trust, with thee I leave them;
Assured that thou desir'st to take
The gift, but for the giver's sake.
Of them I 've formed a small bouquet,
A keepsake, near thy heart to lay,
Because 't is there, I know full well,
That charity and kindness dwell.
And, in some lonely, silent hour,
When thou shalt yield to memory's power,

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173

And let her fondly lead thee o'er
The scenes that thou hast past before,
To absent friends and days gone by,
Then, should they meet thy pensive eye,
A true memento may they be
Of one, whose bosom owes to thee
So many hours enjoyed in gladness,
That else perhaps had passed in sadness,
And many a golden dream of joy,
Untarnished and without alloy—
Of one whose eye looks back to view
The scenes that she has journeyed through,
And sees no spots more brightly shine,
Than those her feet have trod with thine;
Whose fervent prayer will ever be
“Heaven's choicest blessings rest on thee!”