MY love was warm; for that I crossed The mountains and the sea, Nor counted that endeavour lost That gave my love to me.
If that indeed were love at all, As still, my love, I trow, By what dear name am I to call The bond that holds me now DEDICATORY POEM FOR "UNDERWOODS"TO her, for I must still regard her As feminine in her degree, Who has been my unkind bombarder Year after year, in grief and glee, Year after year, with oaken tree;And yet betweenwhiles my laudator In terms astonishing to me -To the Right Reverend The Spectator I here, a humble dedicator, Bring the last apples from my tree.
In tones of love, in tones of warning, She hailed me through my brief career;And kiss and buffet, night and morning, Told me my grandmamma was near;Whether she praised me high and clear Through her unrivalled circulation, Or, sanctimonious insincere, She damned me with a misquotation -A chequered but a sweet relation, Say, was it not, my granny dear?
Believe me, granny, altogether Yours, though perhaps to your surprise.
Oft have you spruced my wounded feather, Oft brought a light into my eyes -For notice still the writer cries.
In any civil age or nation, The book that is not talked of dies.
So that shall be my termination:
Whether in praise or execration, Still, if you love me, criticise!