Oh! woe that e’er I sought to win
A poet’s gifted name!
What ever had my woman’s heart
To do with aught like fame?
My laurel—’tis not at my will,
Or I would fling it down,
And weep, that ever brow of mine
Had won such fatal crown!
It does not fade; ’tis but the lot
Of every birth that springs
From our sad earth, her fair, her sweet;—
These are her fleeting things.
But deadly is the laurel; hence,
Freshly, its green wreath weaves;
It is immortal, for the sake
Of poison in its leaves.
When other trees put forth their bloom,
The laurel stands alone;
Little avail the changeless leaves;
And flowers,—it has none.
The plate for this is from W. Haines as artist and J. W. Cooke as engraver. It is not currently visible on the internet. A contemporary review in Belle Assemblée states:
6. The Lyrist, engraved by J.W. Cook (sic), from a picture by W. Haines, is, on the contrary, very firm, bold and spirited, as well in the engraving as in the design: the former, however, is somewhat deficient in mellowness and tone.
