A draught from Helicon could once inspire
The bard to wing in song his loftiest flight;
But poets of these later times require
A draft from Wall Street, payable at sight.
The Paint-King, envious of his cunning art,
To him the tinted palette would not lend;
So has he dipped the pencil in his heart,
And with his light and shade its hues still blend.
To Mrs. Kean
Of those fair characters the bards create,
Round which thy genius added charms has thrown,
Of those sweet natures thou dost personate,
There is not one more lovely than thine own.
To a poet's wife
She, who in lonely pride may wear
The laurel on her brow,
And sit beneath its chilling shade,
Is far less blest than thou.
A higher happiness is thine,
To hear the voice of Fame
Re-echo in her silver tones,
The one beloved name.
To Dr. ----
I know those subtle elements
Thou dost administer,
Have power to stay the parting breath,
The languid pulse to stir.
And not less potent is thy smile,
Thy sympathizing tone,
Thy tender heart that ever makes
The sufferer's pain its own.
Like the ancient Grecian marbles,
Is his soul with beauty fraught,
And as polished and enduring
Is the sculpture of his thought.
In the Pantheon of our country,
The Valhalla of her fame,
On the record of her poets,
First of all is traced his name.
To ---- V
In the noble army of Reform
Thou art a pioneer;
And bravely wields thy good right arm,
The broadsword and the spear.
Thou may'st not see the battle's close,
The victory may'st not win:
But the scars upon thy spirit prove,
Thou has not lived in vain.
To ---- X
Like the river's current rapid;
Like the lightning's flash intense;
Was the rushing, fiery torrent
Of thy fervid eloquence.
And the multitude that listened
To each breathing, burning word,
Like the ocean by the tempest,
To its quiet depths was stirred.
To ---- II
I do not ask if an illustrious name
Has shed upon thy birth its purple glow;
Nor do I ask what titles thou canst claim,
What ribbon favors, such as kings bestow.
Why should I, when upon thy brow I see,
In its expression of all lofty things,
The insignia of that true nobility
That bears the impress of the King of kings?
Upon his canvas Nature starts to life,
Clear waters flow, majestic trees arise, --
The earth and air with beauty's shapes are rife,
And over all there bend his glorious skies.
Yes, this is Nature -- living, breathing, warm,
Ere yet her face the blight and storm have crossed;
Yes, this is Nature, in that radiant form
She wore of old, ere Paradise was lost.