Page:Friendship's Offering 1827.pdf/7

 Oh! woe that e’er I sought to win A poet’s gifted name! What ever had my woman’s heart To do with aught like fame? My laurel—’tis not at my will, Or I would fling it down, And weep, that ever brow of mine Had won such fatal crown! It does not fade; ’tis but the lot Of every birth that springs From our sad earth, her fair, her sweet;— These are her fleeting things. But deadly is the laurel; hence, Freshly, its green wreath weaves; It is immortal, for the sake Of poison in its leaves. When other trees put forth their bloom, The laurel stands alone; Little avail the changeless leaves; And flowers,—it has none.

The plate for this is from W. Haines as artist and J. W. Cooke as engraver. It is not currently visible on the internet. A contemporary review in Belle Assemblée states:

6. The Lyrist, engraved by J.W. Cook (sic), from a picture by W. Haines, is, on the contrary, very firm, bold and spirited, as well in the engraving as in the design: the former, however, is somewhat deficient in mellowness and tone.