by John Moultrie
In gravest toils, at war with phantasy,
Nine years, nine mortal years, have swiftly past,
Since my then youthful Muse unfolded last
Her curious treasures to the public eye.
Since then hath Fancy's rivulet been dry,
And on my brow her chaplet fading fast ;
But now my 'crescent boat' erects her mast,
And braves once more the doubtful sea and sky :
Fair be her voyage, though she mounts no more
The gaudy streamers of her earlier days,
Nor, fraught with folly, scuds along the shore,
Her trade vain pleasure, and her fare vain praise;
But now, with steadier helm, and sail, and oar,
Her freight of calm and serious thought conveys.
Last updated July 21, 2017