Classic Poem

A DEDICATORY SONNET

D EEM'ST Thou ingrate or dead the Shepherd-boy,
Erewhile who sung thee to the list'ning plain?
Still pausing on thy deeds with pensive joy,
Ingratitude, nor Death have hush'd the strain!
Still drest in all her captivating hues,
Smiling in tears, will languishingly steal
O'er my fantastic dream the much-lov'd muse;
Like morn dim-blushing thro' it's dewy veil:
Her wild-flow'rs bound into a simple wreath,
Meekly she prossers to thy partial sight,
Oh! softly on their tender foliage breathe,
Oh! save them from the Critic's cruel blight,
Nurse the unfolding blooms with care benign,
And mid them weave one laurel-leaf of T HINE !