To Constance

In memory of other days,Dear critic, when your whispered praiseCheered on the limping pen.How short, how sweet those younger hours,How bright our suns, how few our showers,Alas, we knew not then!

If but, long leagues across the seas,The trivial charm of rhymes like theseShall serve to link us twainAn instant in the olden spellThat once we knew and loved so well,I have not worked in vain!