Minor Poems, including Napoleon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lady! if I for thee would twine
The ivy-wreath, can feeling trace
No cause why, on a brow like thine,
The Muse might fitly place
Its verdant foliage—“never sere,”
Of glossy, and of changeless hue?
Ah! yes, there is a cause most dear
To truth, and nature too.

147

II

It is not that it long hath been
Combin'd with thoughts of festal rite;
The cup which thou hast drunk, I ween,
Not always sparkled bright!
Nor is it that it hath been twined
Round victory's brow in days gone by;
Such glory has no power to blind
Thy intellectual eye.

III

For thou canst look beyond the hour
Elated by the wine-cup's thrall,
Beyond the victor's proudest power,
Unto the end of all!
And therefore would I round thy brow
The deathless wreath of ivy place,
For well thy song has prov'd, that thou
Art worthy of its grace.

148

IV

Had earth, and earth's delights alone,
Unto thy various strains given birth;
Then had I o'er thy temples thrown
The fading flowers of earth;
And trusting that e'en these, portray'd
By thee in song, would spotless be,
The jasmine's, lily's, harebell's braid
Should brightly bloom for thee.

V

But thou to more exalted themes
Hast nobly urg'd the Muse's claim;
And other light before thee beams
Than fancy's meteor flame;
And from thy harp's entrancing strings
Sounds have proceeded, more sublime,
Than e'er were waken'd by the things
Which appertain to time!

149

VI

Yes, lady! Thou hast truly set,
Even to the masters of the lyre,
An eloquent example!—yet
How few have caught thy fire!
How few of their most lofty lays
Have to religion's cause been given,
And taught the kindling soul to raise
Its hopes, its thoughts, to heaven!

VII

Yet this at least has been thy aim;
For thou hast chosen that better part,
Above the lure of worldly fame,
To touch, and teach the heart:
To touch it, by no slight appeal
To feelings in each heart confest;
To teach, by truths that bear the seal
God hath himself imprest.

150

VIII

And can those flowers, that bloom to fade,
For thee a fitting wreath appear?
No! Wear thou then the ivy-braid,
Whose leaves are never sere!
It is not gloomy; brightly play
The sun-beams on its glossy green;
And softly on it sleeps the ray
Of moonlight, all serene.

IX

It changes not, as seasons flow
In changeful, silent course along;
Spring finds it verdant, leaves it so;
It outlives Summer's song;
Autumn no wan, or russet stain
Upon its fadeless glory flings:
And Winter o'er it sweeps in vain,
With tempest on his wings.

151

X

“Then wear thou this”—the ivy-crown!
And though the bard who twines it be
Unworthy of thy just renown,
Such wreath is worthy thee.
For hers it is who lends her powers
To virtue's sacred cause alone;
Whose page not only teems with flowers,
But may by fruit be known.