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There, he wheels in downward mazes ;
With uninjured plumes !”
“ Stranger, 't is no act of courage
'Mid the tempest stern;
Like yon TUFT OF FERN;
“Such it is; the aspiring creature
A dull, helpless thing,
ON SEEING A NEEDLE-CASE IN THE FORM
OF A HARP.
THE WORK OF E. M. S.
FROWNs are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size !
Needles for strings in apt gradation !
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own needle, that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit,
Such honor could not merit.
And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody!
To the refined indignity ?
I spake, when whispered a low voice:
“ Bard ! moderate your ire ;
Spirits of all degrees rejoice
In presence of the lyre.
“ The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays.
“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,
Made vocal by their brushing wings, And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
Around its polished strings ;
6 Whence strains to lovesick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.
“ 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.”
IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A
POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA.
Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade, 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
No like remembrances can give,
And there for gentle pleasure live ;
Shall on some lovely Alien set
To peace, or fond regret.
Still as we look with nicer care,
Some new resemblance we may trace: A Hearts-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place.
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
Of English Emigrant.
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 token.