The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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EPISTLE. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
EPISTLE.
Since Ellen Rendall deigns to say,“Write me a poem!” I obey.
Weeds in exchange for flowers, I send;
For the best letter ever penn'd,
The best bad rhymes I can compose—
Not strength in beauty, like thy prose;
Oh, not the wealth of feeling fine
Enriching every phrase of thine,
The fresh fruit of a sad heart's truth,
Flush'd over with the bloom of youth!
Rhymed words I write, and fain would write
A poem, with a poet's might.
But I am bow'd with years;
And cares that shed no tears,
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When sorrows come, because they must,
With lips of ice, and looks of clay,
To turn the spirit's tresses grey;
Can stooping age (though fain he would,)
Write earnest thoughts in “weeping blood,”
And o'er his winter spread the glow
Of warm June's dewy roses? No.
Who to the rain-cloud can restore
The bow that “vanish'd in the storm”?
The quench'd heart's fires return no more!
But what I can I will perform.
Long ere I read a thought of thine,
I plann'd a lay, call'd Etheline;
A lay that oft, in hope and joy,
I may have ponder'd when a boy.
Feebly commenced, and idly cast
Aside, to be redeem'd at last,
A thousand lines the song will end;
A hundred are already penn'd.
Lady! I will inscribe to thee
A tale of Love and Jealousy,
And old, old times—when life was young,
And wisdom taught what passion sung.
Thou, Ellen, thou shalt be my Muse!
Power not his own the bard shall use;
Thy young soul's beauty, wisdom, truth,
Shall wake in me a dream of youth;
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The glory of a seraph's wing
O'er all the woful gloom and strife
That dully chequer human life,)
Placing, with careless grace and ease,
The time-worn Harp before his knees,
O'er funeral Autumn's pensive flowers
A shower of splinter'd sunbeams showers,
And charms the haunted region round
With ecstacies of sight and sound;
Or, in the soul its thunder waking,
Kindles within the heart that's breaking
Fire, born of darkness that weeps fire
And thoughts that turn men pale,
Bidding the fallen still aspire,
Though still to fail;
And like the Adwick of my strain,
Each doom'd Prometheus smile at pain;
Or, school'd his dire reward to meet,
Die with sad pride, as Cæsar died
At imaged Pompey's feet.
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |