I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair that, like the air, ’tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music’s own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows
As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose.
Only Pinkney’s untimely death—before he was twenty-five—prevented his
becoming one of the foremost poets of our country. The _North American
Review_, then the highest literary authority in the country, said: “If
the name of Thomas Carew or Sir John Harrington had been attached to
these poems, we should, in all probability, like others, have been
completely taken in.” Another critic declared: “Some of his poems are
not surpassed by any similar productions in the English language.” I
risk nothing in saying that Pinkney’s readers of 1905 will re-echo these
praises—and I trust all who have heretofore sustained me in my
historical publications will give as hearty support to this, my first
effort in the field of American poetry. The edition will consist of 250
copies, of which 200 will be in octavo (6 × 9) form, gilt top, uncut
edges, at $3.00.