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The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed, By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all, TTby constant flow of love, that knew no fall, • Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,' That humour interposed too often makes: .^/ All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight) Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.— 8 But no—what here we call our life is such, • So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. J
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how switt! hast reached the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar*," / And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of lite, long since, has anchored at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed— Me howling winds drive devious, tempest tossed, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents passed into the skies. ^ And now. farewell—time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
THE FAITHFUL FRIEND.
The green-house is my summer seat;
Enjoyed the open air;
Lived happy prisoner's there.
They sang, as blithe as finches sing,
And frolic where they list;
And therefore never missed.
But nature works in every breast;
Which, after many an effort vain,
The open windows seemed to invite
But Tom was still confined;
To leave his friend behind.
For, settling on his grated roof,
He chirped and kissed him, giving proof
That he desired no more;
A prisoner as before.
Oh ye, who never knew the joys
Fandango, ball, and rout!
To liberty without.
THE NEEDLESS ALARM.
There is a field, through which I often pass,
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
vOL. III. N