TO SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
45
Through its time-honored shades, while thy rich tones
Have thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughts
To sleep no more for ever.
Have thrilled my spirit's lyre, and wakened thoughts
To sleep no more for ever.
Cousin dear,
This humble wreath that here I send to thee
Is woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers.
Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh,
And pure, and softly glowing with the heart's
First morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.
This humble wreath that here I send to thee
Is woven of my spirit's bleeding flowers.
Oh do not scorn the chaplet, for 'tis fresh,
And pure, and softly glowing with the heart's
First morning dews. My cousin, fare thee well.
