OF all the subjects poetry commands, Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow; 'Tis like the streams in Afric's burning sands, Exhausted now, and now they overflow. As heaping fuel on a kindling fire, So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise; For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire, He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise. How shall I, then, the happy medium hit, And give the just proportion to my song? How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit, Yet fear at once t' offend thee and to wrong? Sure to offend, if far the Muse should soar, And sure to wrong thee if her strength I spare; Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore -- That all confess what I must not declare. Yet, on this day, in every passing year, Poets the tribute of their praise may bring; Nor should thy virtues then be so severe, As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. Still I forbear: for why should I portray Those looks that seize -- that mind that wins the heart -- Since all the world, on this propitious day, Will tell how lovely and how good thou art. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AURENG-ZEBE, OR THE GREAT MOGUL: PROLOGUE by JOHN DRYDEN KIT CARSON'S RIDE by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER LINES TO THE MEMORY OF ANNIE WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860 by HARRIET BEECHER STOWE THE DOVE by ABUL HASAN OF SEVILLE DARDANELLES by THEODORE AUBANEL THE GYPSIES [OR, GIPSIES] by HENRY HOWARTH BASHFORD |