Poems (Gould, 1833)/To Mrs. L**
TO MRS. L**,With a little book of Poems in manuscript.
Although my foot could never treadOn proud Parnassus's lofty head,And though I 've long essayed in vainE'en on its side a seat to gain,I 've often knelt in supplicationBefore the Muse for inspiration,Who turned aside her partial earAnd all my prayers refused to hear.And, though my steps did never falter,While seeking flowers to deck her altar,Before the offerings could be made,My voice grew faint, my wreaths would fade;My sacrifices were rejected,Or past unnoticed and neglected.Though many an hour and many a day,I 've sighed for power to sing and play;I never sought to strike the lyreWith half the feeling, half the fireWith which to-day I fain would sing,And sweep for thee, the tuneful string—For notes so deep, so sweet and clear,As I would pour into thine ear!And yet, my voice was ne'er so low,My trembling hand ne'er half so slow,My fearful lyre so loath to pour,Its timid numbers forth, before! Where genius, science, taste refinedAre centered in one favorite's mind,And she may listen to a throngOf all the darling sons of song,It ill befits me to appear;And if I come, 't is but with fear,—The feeble taper's shrinking blazeAmid the sun's resplendent rays!I never wished for flowers so sweetAs I would scatter at thy feet.But all I bring are wild and pale,And humble natives of the vale,Which I have plucked, where oft I stray,On fancy's wide and devious way,In playful, or in pensive mood,As chanced to pass my solitude.
I know they soon would droop and dieBeneath the world's stern, withering eye.But since thy wish is to receive them,With joy, in trust, with thee I leave them;Assured that thou desirest to takeThe gift, but for the giver's sake.I 've formed of them a small bouquet,A keepsake, near thy heart to lay,Because 't is there, I know full well,That charity and kindness dwell.And, in some lonely, silent hour,When thou shalt yield to memory's power,And let her fondly lead thee o'erThe scenes that thou hast past before, To absent friends and days gone by,Then, should they meet thy pensive eye,A true memento may they beOf one, whose bosom owes to theeSo many hours enjoyed in gladness,That else perhaps had passed in sadness,And many a golden dream of joy,Untarnished and without alloy—Of one whose eye looks back to viewThe scenes that she has journeyed through,And sees no spots more brightly shine,Than those her feet have trod with thine;Whose fervent prayer will ever be'Heaven's choicest blessings rest on thee!'