(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.