I took a Rosebud from a certain bower,And by its side placed an Orange flower,Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfumeAnd 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.
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 thoughtOf the fond messages they brought.And yet you could not then divineThe 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 knowHow much to your dear self I owe,—Too young and innocent as yetTo guess in what consists the debt.Therefore to you henceforth belongThese Southern asphodels of song,LessMYcreations than your own,What praise they win are yours alone.For here no fancy finds a placeBut is an affluence of your grace;—And when my songs are sweetest, thenA Dream like you hath touched my pen.