From whom it came, paint the deep joy, or tell
What the young minstrel feels, when first the song
Has been rewarded by the thrilling praise
Of one too partial, but whose lightest word
Can bid the heart beat quick with happiness—
Recall thine earliest and thy dearest wish—
Recall the first bright vision of thy youth,
The hope, which was, ah! more than life to thee!
Where blended timid fear, whate'er it was
That thy young spirit priz'd, and thou mayst tell,
Were mine the fairest laurel Bard e'er gain'd,
In days when Greece was proud to grace the lyre;
Were mine the fame, before whose glory life
Sinks into nothingness, they could not be
So precious as the slightest wreath of thine:
It is my thought of pride, my cherish'd prize,
To breathe one song not quite unworthy thee.
But, Hope! thy charmed voice I may not trust;
To list to thy sweet promises, is but
