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That Heaven-sent genius gave,
The green blade with the golden grain;
Alas! to bloom and beard in vain,
Sheafed round a sick-room’s bed of pain,
And garnered in the grave.

They are far away, those sunny days,
And since we watched their setting rays,
The music of the voice of praise
From many a land, and many a clime,
Has greeted my astonished rhyme;
Till half in doubt, half pleased, it curled
Its queerest lip upon the world,
But never heard I flattery’s tone
Sounding around me, “Bard, well done!”
Without a blessing on the One
Who flattered first—the bonnie nurse
Whose young hand rocked my cradled verse.

Long may her voice, as now, be near
To prompt, to pardon, and to cheer;
And long be smiles for goodness’ sake,
Upon her best of happy faces,
Like Spenser’s Una’s given to make
A sunshine in the shadiest places!