MY harp, though out of tune so long,
May yield a simple strain:
I will not aim at lofty song,
Well knowing that were vain.
And will you not the tribute own:
The simple numbers hear?
May not affection's gentle tone
Be soothing to your ear?
And may I hope the unpolished thought
Your goodness will excuse?
Though surely ne'er for favor sought
A less aspiring Muse.
Not born Parnassus' heights to hail,
She shuns the lofty place;
And only owns a lowly vale,
Embosomed at its base.
She never soared on Fancy's wing,
Nor learned poetic art;
Nor knew she e'er to touch a string,
But those that twine the heart.
Will you the humble traveller scorn,
And mock her low estate?
Behold! all trembling and forlorn,
She lingers at your gate.
But ah! of favor she despairs,
And prays no more to roam;–
Then take the offering that she bears,
And send her blushing home.
November, 1807.
