Lines Suggested by a Review in the “Hull Packet.”

I bear a hope that I may yet become A bard not fameless—but, oh, be that fame The meed for songs, whose melody is taught To sweetly warble the Creator’s praise, To tell of virtue, happiness, and truth, And seek the good of man! A laurel wreath To me seems brighter than a crown of gold, The diadem of monarchs; and my hand Would rather strike the silver-chorded lyre Than wield a kingly sceptre. From above All power descends, all talents are derived, And if the Great Disposer give me skill I shall out-reach my highest fondest hope; If he deny—my aspiration’s vain, My harp is tuneless, and my tongue is mute. To Thee, O God, I lift mine orison, And would implore, with deep humility, Thy blessing. May my labours and mine aim Prove no abortion, but repay with fruit; And, above all things, may thy Spirit dwell Within my heart, form it to purity, And sanctify it as thine own abode. 1840