Lucy.

A poem by George Pope Morris

Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy,
My sister dear in song!
How many pleasant fancies
With these sweet numbers throng,
Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets,
Trip merrily along.

Sometimes, my sportive Lucy,
Your words will whirl around,
Like foam-beads on the water,
Or rose-leaves on the ground,
Or waltzers in the ball-room,
To music's airy sound.

There is, my gentle Lucy,
In all you say or do,
A bright poetic impulse,
Original and true,
Which Art can not acquire,
And Nature gave to you.

The olden fable, Lucy,
My muse to you would bring:
The bird that can but will not,
Should be compelled to sing!
The story and its moral
To modern memories cling.

Awake the harp, dear Lucy!
Like the electric wire
It will convey to millions
The heart-absorbing fire!
And those who lean to listen
Will linger to admire.