Poems and Essays

by Joseph Howe




  Lady, the verse which I have promised long
And still delay’d—the Muse would gladly pay,
But, those bright thoughts which are the soul of Song,
Those feelings which inspire the Poet’s lay,
With Boyhood’s years have long since passed away,
  And may not, cannot, be recalled again:
The busy World, and all its strange array
Of cares, hopes, labors, and excitements vain.
Weigh on the heavy heart, and overload the brain.
Else easy were the task, a Poet’s dream
  Might well be woven round a form like thine,
Well might his spirit, kindled by the beam
Of that dark eye, flash o’er the graceful line,
And all a Lover’s hopes and fears entwine
With the bright flowers Imagination rears;
  An humble aim—such, Lady, shall be mine—
Though Friendship’s lay more cold than Love’s appears,
Oh! may the prayer it breathes cling round thy future years.
May thy path onwards through the Vale of Life
Lie through its pleasant scenes where all is fair;
  May that pure spirit that now shuns the strife,
The converse, the contagion, and the glare
Of Fashion and her votaries—to share
The joys that from the heart more freshly spring,
Ne’er fade beneath the with’ring blight of care;
  May Peace, Love, Friendship, each their offerings bring.
And, round thee, gentle girl, their fairest treasures fling.
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