214
ALBUM VERSES.
To poets who were taught by Heaven,
And poets who have taught themselves.
To wits, whose thistle-shafts by flowers
Are hid, their points in balsam dipped;
To humor, in his happiest hours,
And punsters—if their wings are clipped.
But friendship, with her smiling features,
Will come, ’tis hoped, without a call;
For though your wits are clever creatures,
One line of hers is worth them all.
Let names of heroes and of sages,
On history’s leaf eternal be;
A few brief years on Beauty’s pages
Are worth their immortality.
At least this charmèd book permits us
To brave oblivion’s withering power,
Till she who summons us, forgets us;
And who would live beyond that hour?
