To whom,—as Fancy, taking longer flight,
With folded arms upon her heart's high swell,
Floating the while in circles of delight,
And whispering to her wings a sweeter spell
Than she has ever aim'd or dar'd before—
Shall I address this theme of minstrel lore?
To whom but her who loves herself to roam
Through tales of earlier times, and is at home
With heroes and fair dames, forgotten long,
But for romance, and lay, and lingering song?
To whom but her, whom, ere my judgment knew,
Save but by intuition, false from true,
Seem'd to me wisdom, goodness, grace combin'd;
The ardent heart; the lively, active mind?
To whom but her whose friendship grows more dear,
And more assur'd, for every lapsing year?
One whom my inmost thought can worthy deem
Of love, and admiration, and esteem!