What offering can a muse like mine
Bring to this newly hallow'd shrine ?
The time is past-alas the while !—
When 'neath the glow of Beauty's smile
The flowers of love were wont to rise,
And give their incense to the skies.
And past the time when Hope could sing,
Mocking the holiest hymns of spring,
And drowning with her heavenly strain
The notes of care, and grief, and pain.
Upon that middle height I stand,
With life and death on either hand,
When 'neath my feet the vales descending,
Each into each its colours blending,
Still glow in memory's light—the last,
The loveliest of that charmed past.
While dark above a forest screen,
With tangled paths and peeps between,
Half hides the haggard cliff o'erhead-
A space with leaves and lichens spread-
Till these are lost, and snow and ice
Are seen to crown the precipice-
That gradual fades into the hue
Of the far sky, now brightly blue,
Now shadowed with the tints of fear,
Even as the glass is dim or clear,
Through which those spectral sights appear.

Like thine, fair pupil in an art

Of which the inner, loftier part

Thou mightst have taught! With me it lay
To point, but not to lead the way;
To urge with cheering voice and hand
Thy fearful shallop from the strand;
Teach thee through clashing waves to steer,
And hover o'er thy brave career,
And in each turn of joy or pain
Fight my own battles o'er again.

What offering? Old-fashioned truth,
Good wishes clad in rhymes uncouth,
For these are all my muse's store-
But, lady, thou dost seek no more,
Rich as thou art in better things,
In rare and bright imaginings,
Aspirings pure, convictions deep,
That round a "guard angelic" keep.
If thou wouldst loftily fulfil

Thy humble task-high thoughts instil

In generous bosoms-lore impart
To gild the fancy, mend the heart,
Enlighten youth, enliven age—
Fling thy own mind upon the page!