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STANZAS
ADDRESSED TO MISS M. J. JEWSBURY, LATE MRS. FLETCHER, ON HER “FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.”
Gentle Minstrel, say not so,
Bid not thus the Muse farewell;
Since to her 'tis thine to owe
Many a soft and soothing spell;
Fraught with power to bring a train
Of unbidden joys around thee:
If she “lightens hours of pain,”
And when Fate's barbed arrows wound thee,
Pours upon thy bleeding heart
Balsam sweet to heal the smart;
If thou'st loved her “long and well,”
Wherefore bid her now farewell?
Bid not thus the Muse farewell;
Since to her 'tis thine to owe
Many a soft and soothing spell;
Fraught with power to bring a train
Of unbidden joys around thee:
If she “lightens hours of pain,”
And when Fate's barbed arrows wound thee,
Pours upon thy bleeding heart
Balsam sweet to heal the smart;
If thou'st loved her “long and well,”
Wherefore bid her now farewell?
Fame's proud steep is hard to climb;
Never poet gained its brow,
And its laurel wreath sublime,
But with toilsome steps and slow;
For the Muse is coy to yield
To the first light vows we make her;
Who would see her spells unsealed,
To their inmost hearts must take her;
Cherish her in weal or woe,
And all other loves forego;
Nor, when fancies wild impel,
Bid her thus, like thee, farewell!
Never poet gained its brow,
And its laurel wreath sublime,
But with toilsome steps and slow;
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To the first light vows we make her;
Who would see her spells unsealed,
To their inmost hearts must take her;
Cherish her in weal or woe,
And all other loves forego;
Nor, when fancies wild impel,
Bid her thus, like thee, farewell!
Why pronounce her promise vain,
And her name, ungrateful, wrong;
Why declare in such a strain,
In so wildly sweet a song,
That she ne'er to thee hath given
Gleams of her ethereal fire,—
Foretaste of her native heaven,
Now to soften, now inspire.
Where, if not on hearts like thine,
May she pour her rays divine;
To whom may she her mysteries tell,
If thou must bid her thus farewell!
And her name, ungrateful, wrong;
Why declare in such a strain,
In so wildly sweet a song,
That she ne'er to thee hath given
Gleams of her ethereal fire,—
Foretaste of her native heaven,
Now to soften, now inspire.
Where, if not on hearts like thine,
May she pour her rays divine;
To whom may she her mysteries tell,
If thou must bid her thus farewell!
Then take thy Lute, and it shall be,—
Betide what may of dark or bright,—
Even as Aladdin's lamp to thee,
The depths of thine own heart to light:
To point where gems unnumbered shine,
Wealth thou may'st scarcely deem of now,
And bid thee thence a circlet twine,
To grace thy young, aspiring brow;
A wreath of more than mortal birth,
To keep thy memory green on earth,
When thou hast bidden Song's sweet spell,
Muse, Lute, and Life, indeed farewell!
Betide what may of dark or bright,—
Even as Aladdin's lamp to thee,
The depths of thine own heart to light:
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Wealth thou may'st scarcely deem of now,
And bid thee thence a circlet twine,
To grace thy young, aspiring brow;
A wreath of more than mortal birth,
To keep thy memory green on earth,
When thou hast bidden Song's sweet spell,
Muse, Lute, and Life, indeed farewell!
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