WHAT though with feeble hand I strike the lyre, I will not sigh to gain the poet's bays; Or soar with Genius on the wing of fire, If gentle bosoms prize my artless lays. For still, inspired by soft affection's glow, Or true to melting gratitude sincere, "Warm from the heart,"my native measures flow, 'Unknown to fame, yet still to friendship dear. Fair patroness of my untutored strain, Oh! if the numbers please thy feeling breast, These wild effusions are not poured in vain, My song is honored, and my muse is blest. When early led by nature's charms divine, My youthful vows to Poesy I paid; And bending low at fancy's rural shrine, Of opening buds a fragrant offering made; Thy hand with laurel crowned my infant head, Thy cheering kindness fanned my rising flame, And oh! whate'er the future path I tread, My grateful heart shall ever love thy name. May pleasure wing thy lightly fleeting hours, And health attend thee on thy smiling way ! May hope and joy unite, congenial powers, To gild thy prospect with propitious ray ! The muse for thee a votive wreath shall twine, Sweeter than vernal roses bathed in dews; For there the flowers of gratitude combine, Of simple beauty, but of lasting hues. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RETURN (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON PICKING AND CHOOSING by MARIANNE MOORE UNDER THE WATERFALL by THOMAS HARDY TOLEDO CAPTURED BY THE FRANKS by AL-ASSAL THE OLD FLUTE by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER |