THE VALEDICTORY.[1]
Here is my Valedictory. I bring
A basket of dried fruits—autumnal leaves,
And mosses, pressed from ocean's sunless tides.
I strew them votive at your feet, sweet friends,
Who've listened to me long—with grateful thanks
For favoring smiles, that have sustained and cheered
All weariness.
I never wrote for fame—
The payment seemed not to be worth the toil;
But wheresoe'er the kind affections sought
To mix themselves by music with the mind,
That was my inspiration and delight.
- ↑ This I suppose to be my mother's last completed poem, as it bears date of less than four weeks before her death. It was intended to form a part of a longer poem, entitled "The Septuagenarian," which she was preparing for publication in the coming autumn. The plan was all marked out, but it was not sufficiently far advanced for any use to be made of it. The little poem, as it stands, forms a peculiarly appropriate close to her "Letters of Life."
M. H. R.
