Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/To the Author of "A New Reading of Old Songs"

by Eliza Gabriella Lewis

TO THE AUTHOR OF "A NEW READING OF OLD SONGS."

Dear Illustrator of old rhymes,
Thou mindest me of ancient times,
  When you and I together
Roved, seeking butterflies and flowers—
Despising damp—forgetting hours—
  With hearts light as a feather.

Now, we have toils and cares and troubles;
Yet, still, time finds us blowing bubbles,
  And spreading nets and cages:
You read old songs another way,
And well and quaintly do you play
  The gamut of mirth's pages.

I, though not blue, nor deeply read,
Have rashly dared the muse to wed,—
  Forgetful of the penance:
An empty purse to those who've sung,
An attic, high as Haman hung:—
  What care I for the menace!

My heart is light—ray garret dry,
And something nice when friends are nigh;
  And you, my frolic brother,
Have added to my treasured store
Of pleasant thoughts an item more,
  And helped me care to smother.

Thus let us while each idle hour,
Pluck here a fruit—cull there a flower,
  Bid life new impulse borrow,
And innocently pass our time
Till called unto a happier clime,
  That knows not care nor sorrow.