O SWEETEST MAID!
TO M. R. L.
O SWEETEST maid, in other days The troubadours had sung your praise, And knights had died and joyed to die To win a smile as you passed by, While lord and lackey stood at gaze.
What wonder that the task dismays To wreathe your brow with modern bays, Or rhyming tricks for you to try, O sweetest maid!
For you should be those loftier lays Of which from far the echo strays, In matchless, murmurous melody That dies in Love's divinest sigh— Still Love's strong will my rhyme obeys, O sweetest maid!