TO HELEN. (July 7th, 1836.)

When some grim sorceress, whose skill Had bound a sprite to work her will, In mirth or malice chose to ask Of the faint slave the hardest task, She sent him forth to gather up Great Ganges in an acorn cup; Or Heaven’s unnumbered stars to bring In compass of a signet ring. Thus Helen bids her poet write The thanks he owes this morning’s light; And “Give me,”—so he hears her say,— “Four verses, only four, to-day.” Dearest and best! she knows, if wit Could ever half love’s debt acquit, Each of her tones and of her looks Would have its four, not lines, but books.