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An element that flatters hiin—to kill,
But would rejoice to barter outward show
For the least boon that freedom can bestow? 80

But most the Bard is true to inborn right,
Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night,
Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch
For the dear blessings of a lowly couch,
A natural meal—days, months, from Nature's
hand; 85

Time, place, and business, all at his com-
mand !—
Who bends to happier duties, who more wise
Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize,
Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed
By cares in which simplicity is lost? 90

That life—the flowery path that winds by

stealth—
Which Horace needed for his spirit's health;
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome
By noise and strife, and cjuestions wearisome,
And the vain splendours of Imperial Borne ?—
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire, 96

And fiction animate his sportive lyre,
Attuned to verse that, crowning light Distress
With garlands, cheats her into happiness; 99
Give me the humblest note of those sad strains
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains,
As a chance-sunbeam from his memory fell
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well;
Or when the prattle of Bandusia's spring
Haunted his ear—he only listening— 105

He proud to please, above all rivals, fit
To win the palm of gaiety and wit;
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread,
Shrinking from each new favour to be shed,
By the world's Euler, on his honoured head! 110

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Such earnest longings and regrets as keen Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade; A doleful bower for penitential song, 115

Where Man and Muse complained of mutual

wrong; While Cam's ideal current glided by, And antique towers nodded their foreheads

high, Citadels dear to studious privacy. 119

But Fortune, who had long been used to sport
With this tried Servant of a thankless Court,
Relenting met his wishes; and to you
The remnant of his days at least was true;
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved

best; You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest 1125

Far happier they who, fixing hoj>e and aim On the humanities of peaceful fame, Enter betimes with more than martial fire The generous course, aspire, and still aspire; Upheld by warnings heeded not too late 130 Stifle the contradictions of their fate, And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate!

Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid

brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; With modest scorn reject whate'er would

blind 13^

The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind!
Then, with a blessing granted from above
To every act, word, thought, and look of love,

Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age

Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest

page.1 140

1829.

IV.

POOE EOBIK2

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay 5
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking
power

1 There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realised: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her.

Her enthusiasm wras ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to wrhich she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal.

3 The small wild Geranium known by that name.

To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower; 10
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers—or a richer produce (did it suit
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.

But while a thousand pleasures come un-
sought, 15
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway?
Or does it suit our humour to commend 20
Poor Eobin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to

show Bright colours whether they deceive or no ?— Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill; 26 Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, And such as lift their foreheads overprized, 30 Should sometimes think, where'er they chance

to spy This child of Nature's own humility, What recompense is kept in store or left For all that seem neglected or bereft; With what nice care equivalents are given, 35 How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.

March, 1840.

V.

THE GLEANEE.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.

That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,

That o'er thy brow are shed;
That cheek—a kindling of the morn,
That lip—a rose-bud from the thorn, 5

I saw; and Fancy sped
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,
Of bliss that grows without a care,
And happiness that never flies—
(How can it where love never dies ?) 10

"Whispering of promise, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 1$
From his smoothly gliding wings.

What mortal form, what earthly face
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colours, that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed; 20

For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 24
The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours.

Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn,
That touchingly bespeaks thee born
Life's daily tasks with them to share

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