WITH A SPRIG OF HEATHER
WITH A SPRIG OF HEATHER
TO THE LADY WHO SENT ME A JAR OF HYMETTIAN HONEY
Lady, had the lot been mine
That befell the sage divine,
Near Hymettus to be bred,
And in sleep on honey fed,
I would send to you, be sure,
Rhythmic verses—tuneful, pure,
Such as flowed when Greece was young
And the Attic songs were sung;
I would take your little jar,
Filled with sweetness from afar,—
Brown as amber, bright as gold,
Breathing odors manifold,—
And would thank you, sip by sip,
With the classic honeyed lip.
But the gods did not befriend
Me in childhood's sleep, nor send,
One by one, their laden bees,
That I now might sing at ease
With the winsome voice and word
In this age too seldom heard.
(Had they the Atlantic crost,
Half their treasure had been lost!)
Changed the time and gone the art
Of the glad Athenian heart.
Take you, then, in turn, I pray,
For your gift, this little spray,—
Heather from a breezy hill
That of Burns doth whisper still.
On the soil where this was bred
The rapt ploughman laid his head,
Sang, and looking to the sky
Saw the Muses hovering nigh.
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