PRELUDE TO A VOLUME PRINTED IN

DEAR friends, left darkling in the long eclipse

That veils the noonday,— you whose finger-tips

A meaning in these ridgy leaves can find

Where ours go stumbling, senseless, helpless, blind.

This wreath of verse how dare I offer you

To whom the garden's choicest gifts are due?

The hues of all its glowing beds are ours,

Shall you not claim its sweetest-smelling flowers?

Nay, those I have I bring you,— at their birth

Life's cheerful sunshine warmed the grateful earth;

If my rash boyhood dropped some idle seeds,

And here and there you light on saucy weeds

Among the fairer growths, remember still

Song comes of grace, and not of human will:

We get a jarring note when most we try,

Then strike the chord we know not how or why;

Our stately verse with too aspiring art

Oft overshoots and fails to reach the heart,

While the rude rhyme one human throb endears

Turns grief to smiles, and softens mirth to tears.

Kindest of critics, ye whose fingers read,

From Nature's lesson learn the poet's creed;

The queenly tulip flaunts in robes of flame,

The wayside seedling scarce a tint may claim,

Yet may the lowliest leaflets that unfold

A dewdrop fresh from heaven's own chalice hold.