"Poetry. Poetical Dedication of a Volume", Trewman's Exeter Flying Post or Plymouth and Cornish Advertiser, Nov 30, 1848
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The British Library Newspapers, Gale Digital Collections
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POETRY.
POETICAL DEDICATION OF A VOLUME.
[Miss Eliza Cook, in publishing a new edition of her beautiful
Poems, has dedicated them in the following truly heartfelt
and generous strains to a kindred genius—the gifted Charlotte
Cushman. The verses do honour to both.]
The early melody my heart-strings bore,
Free and untaught as God's Œolian notes,
Of winds in woods, or waves upon the shore,
Was heard by thee long since-thy soul, which dotes
On High, Eternal Nature, gave to me
Its gentle sympathy: and all unknown,
Thy spirit clung to mine, and craved to see
The simple reed that pleased thee with its tone.
Fate brought thee hither from the far-off West,
Thy genius shone, and Fame can tell the rest.
I gazed with joy upon thy open brow,
And Faith sprung up between us, firm and sound;
We were good, earnest friends at first, and now
Where is the hand by which could be unbound
The mingled threads of Feeling's fairest hues,
That hold us captive in Affection's thrall?
Where is the poison-tongue that could infuse
Into our drought of Peace Doubt's burning gall?
We speak too meaningly, and mean too well,
For any worldly craft to break the spell.
We have talked on through many a cheerful day,
As Reason's mood on Fancy's impulse led;
Time oft has flown so deftly on our way,
That ere the south seemed light the west was red;
And if my later song bear harvest grain,
Of richer excellence, as some declare—
Thine be the praise that waits upon the strain,
And thine the leaf of laurel it may wear;
For thou hast brought back all the zeal of Youth;
Broadened my brain and fortified my truth,
I love thee, and herewith I dedicate
Unto thy name the children of my mind;
My verse is honest, if it be not great,
And thou wilt brook the fruit's unseemly rind.
My first instinctive lays poured with the hope
Of soothing breasts that meet too little heed—
To add a star to the dull horoscope
Of hearts that in their darkness still can bleed.
l sing for the chafed mass, and not for those
Who, crouched on flowers, groan o'er a rumpled rose.
I know thou art an altar where my lyre
May honourably yield its worship chaunt;
'Tis only worth like thine that could inspire
The unbought minstrelsy of this Romaunt.
I would not flatter monarchs for their thrones,
Nor serve a golden shrine to win its pelf;
My harp—the proudest thing my spirit owns—
Lies only at the feet of thy dear self,
Friend, Woman, Sister, let it lie there long,
And mark how Love and Trust shall help its song!