The Iron Pen

Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine.     I thought this Pen would arise     From the casket where it lies--         Of itself would arise and write     My thanks and my surprise.     When you gave it me under the pines,     I dreamed these gems from the mines         Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine     Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines;     That this iron link from the chain     Of Bonnivard might retain         Some verse of the Poet who sang     Of the prisoner and his pain;     That this wood from the frigate's mast     Might write me a rhyme at last,         As it used to write on the sky     The song of the sea and the blast.     But motionless as I wait,     Like a Bishop lying in state         Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold,     And its jewels inviolate.     Then must I speak, and say     That the light of that summer day         In the garden under the pines     Shall not fade and pass away.     I shall see you standing there,     Caressed by the fragrant air,         With the shadow on your face,     And the sunshine on your hair.     I shall hear the sweet low tone     Of a voice before unknown,         Saying, "This is from me to you--     From me, and to you alone."     And in words not idle and vain     I shall answer and thank you again         For the gift, and the grace of the gift,     O beautiful Helen of Maine!     And forever this gift will be     As a blessing from you to me,         As a drop of the dew of your youth     On the leaves of an aged tree.