Richard Doddridge Blackmore

To My Pen

I

Thou feeble implement of mind,
Wherewith she strove to scrawl her
name;
But, like a mitcher, left behind
No signature, no stroke, no claim,
No hint that she hath pined—

Shall ever come a stronger time,
When thou shalt be a tool of skill,
And steadfast purpose, to fulfil
A higher task than rhyme?

II

Thou puny instrument of soul,
Wherewith she labours to impart
Her efforts at some arduous goal;
But fails to bring thy coarser art
Beneath a fine control—

Shall ever come a fairer day,
When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,
To soar, where clearer suns illume,
And fresher breezes play?