To the soul of gentle love,
Pure and bright as that above,
To the generous thought of Truths,
To the buoyant heart of Youth,
And the words, outliving men,
Speaking from the silent pen,
And to all the deep and tender
Thoughts, that heart to heart would render —
Warmly chaste, and humbly great —
Thee, fair Book, I dedicate.
Lest not Folly’s idle finger
On thy page, a moment linger,
Leaving flattery’s sickening slime,
Or the tempter’s glozed rhyme;
Far away, and yet more far
Be the hands that touch to mar,
Laden with the borrowed waste
Of a long-corrupted taste—
Fragments passed from folly’s den
Since the time — we know not when.
But the rather, garner here
Promptings of a heart sincere,
Earnest thoughts of genial kind
Bubbling freshly from the mind,
Speech that rhymes with the unwritten
Wants in loving bosoms hidden,
For the poorest simple world
From the hearts that love us, heard —
So it shall be theirs indeed—
Worthiest is of thankful heed.
Let thy lines become a part
Of the Evangel of the Heart,
The one Hear within us all,
Earnest, deep and mystical.
Something in whose homely sense
Lives a native eloquence,
The untaught and simple speech
Of the honest soul of each,
Who with dancing fingers throw
Tracks of love along thy snow.
So may she — for whom thou art
As a Publican of the heart,
Gathering tithes from all thou meetest
Of the wisest and the sweetest, —
Hail thy oft return with pleasure,
For thy rich and welcome treasure,
Dross’d not with such idle ware
As thy kin too often bear;
So thy stored Remembrances
Shall link after joys to these.
Go thou little volume — thou
Honey-bee, flower-hunting now—
Down the vales of humble life,
Where the blooms of love are rife,
To the warm-bath of the lily,
And the rose-bowers never chilly;
Shun the poison for the sweet,
Laden, turn to thy retreat,
And hive there the goldenest
In thy gentle mistress’ breast.
