TO A LADY.

Again I welcome the familiar pen;

Again I sit me down to think and write;

Fairly and free should flow my fancies when

So fair a subject calls me to indite.

And thou, O Muse, whose gracious fingers oft,

And ne’er, I trust, in vain, have beckoned me,

Grant that thy spirit, breathing numbers soft,

May now descend to aid thy humblest votary.

So, when the lark, in fullest tide of song,

Makes sudden pause amidst his music clear,

As seeking which, of all the thoughts that throng,

First to embody for the listening ear,

So do I hesitate and pause, in doubt

With such diversity where to begin,

For outward eyes would praise those charms without,

Whilst Love would greet the soul enshrined those charms within.

Ah, gracious lady, words alone are vain

Thy finer, subtler traits to fitly show;

Rather Apollo’s art, in sweetest strain,

With long-drawn symphonies, as soft as low,

And cunningly devised by master-hand,

Thy worth and beauty better would express

Than my rude phrases—serving but to stand

As tokens of thy power and of my faithfulness.

Yet tokens true are they; as tender shoots,

Just peeping through the earth, are sureties good

That deep below are hidden strongest roots,

Which give this evidence of lustihood,

So doth the love, long ’prisoned in my breast,

Forced by its growth, at length expression find;

I place my life, my all, at thy behest;

I could not love thee more, nor oaths could stronger bind.

Yet what are words? Mere breaths which pass away;

And words are at the service of us all.

Vows, true or false, ring all the same to-day;

We by our after-actions stand or fall.

Give me to do some deed, some work, to show

And prove the love I bear thee; test my faith.

I speak no more; in silence, love shall grow,

And silent witness give that love shall last till death.

E. G. W.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.