I know not what these lines will be,
I know not who these lines may see;
But since a word in season sent,
As from a bow at hazard bent,
May reach a roving eye, or dart
Conviction through a careless heart,
O that an arrow I might find
In the small quiver of my mind,
Which with unerring aim should strike
Each who encounters it alike!
Reader,—attention! I will spring
A wondrous thought;—’tis on the wing;
Guard well your heart;—you guard in vain,
The wound is made yet gives no pain;
Surprise may cause your cheek to glow,
Yet, courage! none but you shall know;
The thought awaken’d by my spell
Is more than I myself can tell.
How?—search the secrets of your breast,
And think of that which you love best!
Then ask within—“What will this be,
A thousand ages hence, to me?”
And if it will not pass the fire
In which all nature shall expire,
Think, ere these rhymes aside are cast,
(As though the thought might be your last,)
“Where shall I find below, above,
“An object worthy of my love?”
Now hearken! and forget it never-
Love that which you may love for ever.
J. M.
Sheffield, 1820.