When hither you come, do enter our door, I'll give you my hand, perhaps something more. Let me urge, if inclined, to this you'll reply, I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try; The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre. But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear," And frowns on me scornful, the year after year; Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf," She'll open her heart, and yield me relief. But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu, My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you, And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name, The privilege grant me of doing the same. S. NICHOLSON. Boston, April 16, 1862. REJOINDER TO THE FOREGOING REPLY. Many, many thanks my friend, For those sweet verses thou didst send, So good they were and witty; And now I will confess to thee, Mixed up with bad, much good I see Within the crowded city. Boston, "with all thy faults I love Thee still," though much I disapprove-- See much in thee to blame; Yet to be candid, I'll allow Thy equal no one can me show From Mexico to Maine. It is my boast, perhaps my pride, To be to English blood allied, Warm in my veins it's flowing; And when I see the homage given To foreign men and foreign _women_,[1] _That blood with shame is glowing_. I hope when Kossuth fever's cool And we have put our wits to school, And sober senses found; When the Hungarian's out of sight And shattered brains collected quite, We may be safe and sound. But what simpletons, should we choose, With nought to gain and much to loose, 'Gainst Austria to war; What greater folly, when we know By doing this, we'll get a blow From the ambitious Czar. But you may not with me agree, And I am getting warm I see, So here I bid adieu To Kossuth and to Hungary, To Russia and to Germany, And the great Emperor too. And now my friend a word I'd say Before I throw my pen away, On subject most important; In doing this I need not fear I shall offend the nicest ear, Or strike a note discordant. Oh! had I true poetic fire, With boldness would I strike the lyre So loud that all might hear; But ah! my harp is tuned so low, Its feeble strains I full well know Can reach no distant ear. Yet I rejoice that harps on high, And voices of sweet harmony, Are raised to bless the name Of Him who sits upon the throne, Rejoicing over souls new born, Who soon will join with them, Eternally His name to adore Who died, yet lives forevermore. Weston, May 8, 1852. [1] By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of them I consider among the very best of our population, but dancers, &c., &c. TO MY FRIEND MR. J. ELLIS. To thee, the guardian of my youthful days, Fain would I pay some tribute of respect; And though it falls far short of thy desert, The _will_ to do thee justice thou'lt accept.