06.03.2008, 20:10
To Miss Isabella Fenwick
Fain would I put my meanings in the tongue
Familiar, lady, to thy earliest years,
That gives the finest edge to social jeers;
The language, which by merry bard was sung
In times of old, to ladies fair, among
The courts devoted to sublime amours
By gay trouveurs, and knightly troubadours,
Accents o'er which the Scottish Mary hung
Her beauteous head enamour'd. Yet I trust
Thou wilt not scorn the talk of this old isle,
The tongue which Milton raised to themes sublime,
On which keep Pope bestow'd his poignant gust,
Which Cowper graced with melancholy smile,
And Spenser hallow'd with immortal rhyme.
March 26th, 1839
Fain would I put my meanings in the tongue
Familiar, lady, to thy earliest years,
That gives the finest edge to social jeers;
The language, which by merry bard was sung
In times of old, to ladies fair, among
The courts devoted to sublime amours
By gay trouveurs, and knightly troubadours,
Accents o'er which the Scottish Mary hung
Her beauteous head enamour'd. Yet I trust
Thou wilt not scorn the talk of this old isle,
The tongue which Milton raised to themes sublime,
On which keep Pope bestow'd his poignant gust,
Which Cowper graced with melancholy smile,
And Spenser hallow'd with immortal rhyme.
March 26th, 1839