THOU master of this fourteen-stringéd lyre,
Cunningest weaver of delicious song,
Whose measures move at once serene and strong,
Calm outwardly, but touched within with fire
Of stinging intellectual desire ;
Thou prince of those whose ecstasies belong
To thought, not feeling, whose harmonious tongue
Made love’s ideal soar a heaven higher, —
Petrarch, I thee invoke to aid my Muse,
Not like believers who with vows adore
And kneel and kiss and pass, and so forget;
But that the constant worship which I use
May grow in comprehension more and more,
Till thy high seal upon my song be set.
Gamaliel Bradford, Jr.