There, he wheels in downward mazes; ANSWER. "Stranger, 't is no act of courage But such mockery as the nations "Such it is; the aspiring creature A dull, helpless thing, Dry and withered, light and yellow; That to be the tempest's fellow! Wait, and you shall see how hollow Its endeavoring!" 1817 XVIII. ON SEEING A NEEDLE-CASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. THE WORK OF E. M. S. FROWNS are on every Muse's face, A very Harp in all but size! Needles for strings in apt gradation! Minerva's self would stigmatize The unclassic profanation. Even her own needle, that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Such honor could not merit. And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, A living lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled I spake, when whispered a low voice: "Bard! moderate your ire; Spirits of all degrees rejoice. "The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, 66 Some, still more delicate of ear, Have lutes (believe my words) Whose framework is of gossamer, While sunbeams are the chords. "Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, "Whence strains to lovesick maiden dear, "Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, Nor think the Harp her lot deplores ; Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 1827. XIX. TO A LADY, IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITF HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers I who ne'er sat within their bowers, Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By shepherd groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn, These eyes have never seen. Yet though to me the pencil's art Still as we look with nicer care, Some new resemblance we may trace: And so may we, with charmed mind Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find, A new Forget-me-not. From earth to heaven with motion fleet, From heaven to earth, our thoughts will pass, A Holy- Thistle here we meet And there a Shepherd's Weather-glass ; And haply some familiar name Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant, Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Gazing, she feels its power beguile Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek, that tender smile Is but a harbinger of death: And pointing with a feeble hand, She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land This precious Flower, true love's last tok en |