IN FRENCH FIELDS.
45
Then man in God's own image bright,
And then when all this work was done,
The crown and glory of the whole—
Fair woman in her robe of light.
And now, behold, I make an end,
With just this prelude on my lyre:
You know the reason why, my friend,
I am the tuner—to retire
When throng Rossinis in to play;
But if my spirit thus draw back
For fear of a degrading fall
From this high tourney of the Muse,
Beside the gate I stand for aye;
Nor deem me in affection slack;
In friendship's race 'come one, come all,'
No gauntlet thrown will I refuse.
My challenge here is proud and high,
Who loves you more? Dares none reply?
