To My Quaker Cousin

Yes, thou are right, sweet coz! I own
     I am a lazy rhymer—very,—
And seldom give my harp a tone
     Of willing music, sad or merry;
Its strings are snapped, or out of tune,
     And I myself am out of fashion,
For wailing ditties to the moon
     Was never my peculiar passion.

I never wet my thirsty lip
     At Helicon’s inspiring fountain,
Nor even in fancy took a trip
     To meet the Muses on their mountain.
The voice of Fame is sweet enough,
     Doubtless, for devotees who love her,
But then her hill is quite too rough
     And steep for me to clamber over.

Lazy and uninspired, can I
     Write for thee canzonet or sonnet?
Or, smitten by thy beauty, try
     To perpetrate a song upon it?
No—though thy charms of face and form
     Would madden, like a heavenly vision,
When wine and love had rendered warm
     Some dreamer of the fields Elysian!

No—though the wicked world should swear
     Thou are the latest importation
From that bright realm where seraphs are
     Bending for aye in adoration!
For beauty is at discount now
     With the dull muse that weaves my numbers,
Nor laughing eye, nor polished brow,
     Gleams on her in her dreamless slumbers.

But, for the brightness of thy youth,
     And for the chastened love I bear thee,
And for thy gentleness and truth,
     Which even thievish Time must spare thee,
And for thy heart which overflows
     With kindness for the wronged and lowly,
And for thy guileless soul which glows
     With tenderest feelings, pure and holy—

And for that fervent zeal for Right
     Which burneth in thy bosom ever,
And for that steadfast faith whose might
     In peril’s hour shall fail thee never—
For human sympathies, which bring
     True hearts around thee to adore thee—
For these, dear coz! I kneel and fling
     The tribute of my song before thee.

Others may sonnetize the spell
     That lives within thy radiant glances,
And lying bardlings boldly tell
     That loveliness around thee dances;
Vows may be offered thee in rhyme,
     And worship paid in common metre;
But these will pass with passing time,
     For beauty than the wind is fleeter.

Be mine the better task to find
     For thee a tribute undegrading:
Flowers from the garden of the mind,
     Fragrant and pure, and never fading—
Gems from the mines of knowledge won,
     Brighter than fancy ever painted—
An offering to lay upon
     The altar of a heart untainted

So, when the hand of Time hath reft
     From face and form thy youthful graces,
A tenderer beauty shall be left
     To sanctify their fading traces;
A chastened radiance, born of Thought,
     Around thy path shall then be shining,
With more than earthly brightness fraught,
     To gild and bless thy life’s declining!