LOVE’S TRIBUTES.
O that I might inspire my song with power
To crown thy brows with more than queenly dower;
To pour on thee a more than golden shower,
And fill thy soul with sunshine every hour.
Time breaks at last the lyre’s sweetest strings,
And palls the sweetest note the minstrel sings,
And riches fly away on falcon wings:
Love only to his trust unchanging clings.
Then be my song of whatsoe’er degree,
And gifts however bright and fair to see,
Rare trophies peril won by land and sea,
Yet Love his own chief offering must be.
All that the flower of Love may yield is thine,
From blushing bud to clusters on the vine,
With colors rich as rubies from the mine,
And odors mounting to the soul like wine.
But all, I know, is paltry in thine eyes,
So far above them all thy worth doth rise.
In vain my muse with feeble pinions tries
To reach the regions where thy merit lies.
Still o’er Love’s treasures hold thy sovereign sway;
Taste them or spill them, keep or cast away;
By night or daytime, hasten or delay,
Trample them, cull them, go thine own sweet way.