Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/463

WITH A SPRIG OF HEATHER WITH A SPRIG OF HEATHER

TO THE LADY WHO SENT ME A JAR OF HYMETTIAN HONEY

, had the lot been mine

That befell the sage divine,

Near Hymettus to be bred,

And in sleep on honey fed,

I would send to you, be sure,

Rhythmic verses—tuneful, pure,

Such as flowed when Greece was young

And the Attic songs were sung;

I would take your little jar,

Filled with sweetness from afar,—

Brown as amber, bright as gold,

Breathing odors manifold,—

And would thank you, sip by sip,

With the classic honeyed lip.

But the gods did not befriend

Me in childhood's sleep, nor send,

One by one, their laden bees,

That I now might sing at ease

With the winsome voice and word

In this age too seldom heard.

(Had they the Atlantic crost,

Half their treasure had been lost!)

Changed the time and gone the art

Of the glad Athenian heart.

Take you, then, in turn, I pray,

For your gift, this little spray,—

Heather from a breezy hill

That of Burns doth whisper still.

On the soil where this was bred

The rapt ploughman laid his head,

Sang, and looking to the sky

Saw the Muses hovering nigh. 433