To Theodosia Garrow

Unworthy are these poems of the lights
That now run over them; nor brief the doubt
In my own breast, if such should interrupt
(Or follow so irreverently) the voice
Of Attic men, of women such as thou,
Of sages no less sage than heretofore,
Of pleaders no less eloquent, of souls
Tender no less, or tuneful, or devout.
Unvalued, even by myself, are they,
Myself who rear'd them; but a high command
Marshall'd them in their station: here they are;
Look round; see what supports these parasites.
Stinted in growth and destitute of odour,
They grow where young Ternissa held her guide,
Where Solon awed the ruler; there they grow,
'Weak as they are, on cliffs that few can climb.
Mone to thy steps are inaccessible,
Theodosia! wakening Italy with song
Deeper than Filicaia's, or than his
The triple deity of plastic art.
Mindful of Italy and thee, crown'd maid!
I lay this sere frail garland at thy feet . .