TO S. T. COLERIDGE.


It is not with a hope my feeble praise
Can add one moment's honor to thy own,
That with thy mighty name I grace these lays;
I seek to glorify myself alone:
For that some precious favor thou hast shown
To my endeavor in a bygone time,
And by this token I would have it known
Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme!
It is my dear ambition now to climb
Still higher in thy thought,--if my bold pen
May thrust on contemplations more sublime.--
But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when
We gain applauses from the great in name,
We seem to be partakers of _their_ fame.


I.

Oh Bards of old! What sorrows have ye sung,
And tragic stories, chronicled in stone,--
Sad Philomel restored her ravish'd tongue,
And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown;
Sweet Sappho on her love forever calls,
And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls!


II.