TO THEE, the Bard of Memory—to thee,
Whose lays, oft read and fondly cherished, dwell
Loved inmates of the heart-lays that to me
Alike are dear in gladness or in gloom,
And oft companions in my loneliness—
If such it be for then I seem not lone,
But circled with the fancy-visioned forms,
Th' aerial beings of the minstrel's song;-
To thee, whose poesy so well hath won
The envied praise of silver-voiced fame,
I bring not laurel wreaths-for they are thine :-
My humble chaplet has but simple flowers,
Buds of the heath and greenwood, to entwine
The Bard's immortal name.- -Yet spurn them not-
For, oh! more fragile than their tend'rest leaf-
Than th' first pale blossom in the lap of Spring,
Is the lone, trembling, doubting heart that yields
Its
young affections to the love of song.