To a man and to a maid.

From
THE UNPUBLISHED
POEMS

William does thy frigid soul,

The charms of poetry deny,

And think thy heart beyond controul,

Of each Parnassian Deity?

This I suspect from that cold look,

Quenching like ice Apollo’s fire,

With which each vagrant verse you took,

When offer’d from my humble lyre.

Not that in truth I mean to say,

I ever had a lyre – not I –

Rhymers you know have got a way,

To Tell a bumper, alias lie. –

– I love quotations – Dr Gibbs –

Or some one else perhaps – has said,

– Poets have leave to publish fibs,

And ’t is a portion of their trade –

But to return – ’t is wrong to say,

That I should not have leave to write,

My maxim is – write while it’s day, –

For soon, forsooth it will be night,

That is – poor Ralph must versify,

Through College like a thousand drums

But when well through then then oh my

The dark dull night of Business comes.

While this my letter you peruse,

Frown no long-faced apostrophe,

Dare not to blame the wayward muse,

Nor scowl the scrof’lous brow at me –

* * *

Perhaps thy lot in life is higher

Than the fates assign to me

While they fulfil thy large desire

And bid my hopes as visions flee

But grant me still in joy or sorrow

In grief or hope to claim thy heart

And I will then defy the morrow

Whilst I fulfil a loyal part.

SONG
Tune ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled’

Shout for those whose course is done, –

Bow you to their setting sun,

– Souls of patriots who won

Noble Liberty.

Fell Britannia’s tyrant power

Quailed in combat’s fearful hour;

Lowly did the Lion cower

To their victory.

Stars of Freedom’s spangled banner!

Burst ye forth in loud hosanna,

While the morning breezes fan her

Passing cheerfully.

Celebrate with song today,

Feats of eras far away

Ruin to the British sway

O’er Columbia

* * *

I spread my gorgeous sail

Upon a starless sea

And o’er the deep with a chilly gale

My painted bark sailed fast & free –

Old Ocean shook his waves

Beneath the roaring wind,

But the little keel of the mariner braves

The foaming abyss, & the midnight blind.

The firmament darkened overhead,

Below, the surges swelled, –

My bark ran low in the watery bed,

As the tempest breath its course compelled.

I took my silver lyre,

And waked its voice on high; –

The wild blasts were hushed to admire,

And the stars looked out from the charmed sky.

Bear me then, ye wild waters,

To Apollo’s Delphian isle,

My name is Music, in Castalie known,

Where bowers of joy the Nine beguile. –

* * *

O what is Heaven but the fellowship

Of minds that each can stand against the world,

By its own meek but incorruptible will?