Runs with speed more smooth and fine, Short-lived likings may be bred 1812. XVII. HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. "WHO but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure With great enterprise ! But in man was ne'er such daring “Mark him, how his power he uses, Lays it by, at will resumes! Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses Clouds and utter glooms! There, he wheels in downward mazes; Sunward now his flight he raises, Catches fire, as seems, and blazes With uninjured plumes!" ANSWER. "Stranger, 't is no act of courage But such mockery as the nations "Such it is; the aspiring creature A dull, helpless thing, Dry and withered, light and yellow; That to be the tempest's fellow! you shall see how hollow Its endeavoring!" XVIII. ON SEEING A NEEDLE-CASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. THE WORK OF E. M. S. FROWNS are on every Muse's face, A very Harp in all but size! Needles for strings in apt gradation! Minerva's self would stigmatize The unclassic profanation. Even her own needle, that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Such honor could not merit. And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, A living lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled To the refined indignity? I spake, when whispered a low voice: "Bard! moderate your ire; Spirits of all degrees rejoice In presence of the lyre. "The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, "Some, still more delicate of ear, "Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, "Whence strains to lovesick maiden dear, "Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, Love stoops as fondly as he soars." XIX. TO A LADY, IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers That in Madeira bloom and fade, — I who ne'er sat within their bowers, Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By shepherd groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn, These eyes have never seen. Yet though to me the pencil's art Still as we look with nicer care, Some new resemblance we may trace: |