At yours, my child, who scarcely know How much to your dear self I owe,-- Too young and innocent as yet To guess in what consists the debt. Therefore to you henceforth belong These Southern asphodels of song, Less MY creations than your own, What praise they win are yours alone. For here no fancy finds a place But is an affluence of your grace;-- And when my songs are sweetest, then A Dream like you hath touched my pen.