Sonnet: "If I Have Graced No Single Song of Mine"
If I have graced no single song of mine
With thy sweet name, they all are full of thee;
Thou art my Muse, my "May", my "Madeline":
But "Julia"!—ah! that gentle name to me
Is something far too sacred for the throng
Of worldly listeners 'round me. Yet ev'n now
I weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow;—
Wilt thou not wear it? 'T is a fashionable song,—
I will not say of what,—but on it I
Have wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame,
Yet after all it hath no nobler aim
Than thy dear praise. Ere many moons pass by,
When the lost gem is set, the crown complete,
I'll lay a poet's tribute at thy feet.
To Rosa——: Acrostic
I took a Rosebud from a certain bower,
And by its side placed an Orange flower,
Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfume
And the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom,
And thus, 't is one of the loveliest feats,
Is spelled a gentle lady's name in sweets.
Dedication
To Fairy
Do you recall—I know you do—
A little gift once made to you—
A simple basket filled with flowers,
All favorites of our Southern bowers?
One was a snowy myrtle-bud,
Another blushed as if with blood,
A third was pink of softest tinge,
Then came a disk with purple fringe.
You took them with a happy smile,
And nursed them for a little while,
And once or twice perhaps you thought
Of the fond messages they brought.
And yet you could not then divine
The promise in that gift of mine,—
In those bright blooms and odors sweet,
I laid this volume at your feet.
At yours, my child, who scarcely know
How much to your dear self I owe,—
Too young and innocent as yet
To guess in what consists the debt.
Therefore to you henceforth belong
These Southern asphodels of song,
Less MY creations than your own,
What praise they win are yours alone.
For here no fancy finds a place
But is an affluence of your grace;—
And when my songs are sweetest, then
A Dream like you hath touched my pen.