To His Muse

 ("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.") 
 
 {XL, May 19, 1836.} 
 
 Since everything below, 
 Doth, in this mortal state, 
 Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow 
 Communicate; 
 
 Since all that lives and moves 
 Upon the earth, bestows 
 On what it seeks and what it loves 
 Its thorn or rose; 
 
 Since April to the trees 
 Gives a bewitching sound, 
 And sombre night to grief gives ease, 
 And peace profound; 
 
 Since day-spring on the flower 
 A fresh'ning drop confers, 
 And the fresh air on branch and bower 
 Its choristers; 
 
 Since the dark wave bestows 
 A soft caress, imprest 
 On the green bank to which it goes 
 Seeking its rest; 
 
 I give thee at this hour, 
 Thus fondly bent o'er thee, 
 The best of all the things in dow'r 
 That in me be. 
 
 Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true, 
 Which grief, not joy, endears,— 
 My thoughts, that like a shower of dew, 
 Reach thee in tears. 
 
 My vows untold receive, 
 All pure before thee laid; 
 Receive of all the days I live 
 The light or shade! 
 
 My hours with rapture fill'd, 
 Which no suspicion wrongs; 
 And all the blandishments distill'd 
 From all my songs. 
 
 My spirit, whose essay 
 Flies fearless, wild, and free, 
 And hath, and seeks, to guide its way 
 No star but thee. 
 
 No pensive, dreamy Muse, 
 Who, though all else should smile, 
 Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, 
 To weep the while. 
 
 Oh, sweetest mine! this gift 
 Receive;—'tis throe alone;— 
 My heart, of which there's nothing left 
 When Love is gone! 
 
 Fraser's Magazine. 


 

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