Classic Poem

My heart presents her gift; in turn, of thee
I ask a little time—an idle hour—
Kindly to spend with these my thoughts and me,
Wooing the fragrance of the Muses' bower;
Not without name or note, yet nameless now
As one devoid of fame and skill and power,
Bearing no charge upon mine argent shield,
A candidate unknown with vizored brow,
Full of young hopes, I dare the tented field!—
Not so:—this is no time for measuring swords;
Thou art no craven, though thy spirit yield;
For yonder are fair looks and friendly words:
Choose a more peaceful image:—here, reveal'd,
Shines a small sample of my golden hoards.