My heart and lute To Thee I could not tell thee if I would      How dear thou art to me; For love is measured not by words     The love I bear to thee; I hear with pleasure many a name     Thine hath a stronger spell Tis linked with all the hopes and joys     That in my bosom dwell. There's many a voice I love to hear     Ring out in gladsome tone. But thine is sweeter far, and hath     A music all its own. It cheered me when the hand of care     Lay heavy on my brow I would 'twere more than fancy's dream     That I can hear it now. I love to press the proffered hand     Of many a cherished friend For much of love and sympathy     In such a greeting blend; But more I love to press thine own     As I have often done And think of that expected time     When we shall both be one. A thousand objects claim my love,     And each one shares a part; But next to Heaven, I give to thee      The feelings of my heart; For thee it pours its treasures forth      In one deep flowing stream, Of stronger and purer love     Thy fancy could not dream. S.M. Edelen The same day with the same pen.

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  Acknowledgments

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Notes In this poem by Thomas Moore, Susan's changes are mostly to the punctuation with the exception of change of pronoun from "he" (which Moore had italicized) to "it". The version below is taken from The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore, A New Version from the Last London Edition, Phillips, Sampson, and Co., Boston, 1856:

My heart and lute

I give thee all - I can no more
    Though poor the off'ring be;
My heart and lute are all the store
    That I can bring to thee.
A lute whose gentle song reveals
    The soul of love full well;
And, better far, a heart that feels
     Much more than lute can tell.

Though love and song may fail, alas!
    To keep life's cloud away
At least 'twill make them lighter pass,
    Or gild them if they stay.
And ev'n if Care, at moments flings
    A discord o'er life's happy strain
Let love but gently touch the strings,
    'Twill all be sweet again!

A delightful satire of the above poem appears in The Humorous Poetry of the English Language (B.J. Parton, Fifth Edition, 1857, published by Mason Brothers, New York) reprinted from The Poetical Cookery Book, originally published by the magazine Punch:

Stewed Duck and Peas.

I give thee all, I can no more,
    Though poor the dinner be;
Stew'd Duck and Peas are all the store
    That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
    Its early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
    From fresh transparent shell.

Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
     One's hunger to allay;
At least for luncheon they may pass,
    The appetite to stay.
If seasoned Duck an odor bring
    From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring
    Set all to rights again.

I give thee all my kitchen lore,
    Though poor the offering be;
I'll tell thee how 'tis cook'd before
    You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss'd from head to heels,
    Then stew'd with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
    A most delicious smell.

When Duck and Bacon in a mass
    You in the stew-pan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
    And gently stir away:
A table-spoon of flour bring,
    A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
    And gently stir again.

A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
    Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves - I make my language brief -
    Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer til it sings
    In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
    For trussing it remain.

The parsley fail not to remove,
    Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck - the sauce improve
    In the accustom'd way,
With pepper, salt and other things,
    I need not here explain:
And, if the dish contentment brings,
    You'll dine with me again.

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References

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