Classic Poem

TO THE INKSTAND OF THE ANGEL-MOTHER, REPRESENTED BY TWO LOVED SISTERS TO ME .

 D EAR implement of art—combin'd
With spirit of a gifted mind,
When she, whose hand is now at rest,
Thee to its glowing service prest!
I cherish thee—and bless the pen,
Which calls thee into life again.
 Oh! could I emulate her thought!
Could the rich mine's pure vein be caught!
Her Genius only I'd implore,
And court the polish'd Muse no more.
To Nature's fountain ever trust,
And lay the Pedant in the dust.—
 But of all heir-looms , yet enshrin'd
In pearls, and jewels, of the mind ,
This would the dearest boon impart,
If it could prompt— her style of heart;
The gift, that never could enslave,
But threw a charm on all it gave;
The temper'd mercy of advice
That spar'd the Culprit —not the Vice ;
Her eloquence, of truth inspir'd,
And with no barren praise admir'd;
Balm of the heart by pain oppress'd,
And moralizing as it bless'd:
 It cannot be:—the power is fled,
And lost—as in the Ocean's bed.
 But thou canst guard thy master's word
Against the pen's vindictive sword;
The piercing wounds of jealous pride,
Or shifted Love, in Fortune's tide;
Against the petulance of Sneer;
Defaming Sorrow's precious tear;
The bitter conflict, unappeas'd;
The “ hope deferr'd; the passion teaz'd;
Suspicion's gloom; or Envy's dart;
And the cold rhetorick of Art.
For such dishonours thou art free;
By whispering— her name to me.