All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy conftant 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 ftill 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 fincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reverfed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vefture's tiffued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jeffamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou waft happier than myself the while, Wouldft foftly speak, and ftroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
I would not truft my heart—the dear delight
Seems fo to be defired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
Y
That I fhould ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound fpirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coaft
(The ftorms all weathered and the ocean croffed)
Shoots into port at fome well-havened ifle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There fits quiefcent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incenfe play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with fails how swift! haft reached the
" Where tempefts never beat nor billows roar *,"
And thy loved confort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long fince, has anchored at thy fide.
But me, fcarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always diftreffed-
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toffed,
Sails ript, feams opening wide, and compass loft,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a profperous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art fafe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boaft is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretenfions rise-
The fon of parents paffed into the skies.
And now, farewell-time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not fought in vain,
I feem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the fin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy ftill are free,
And I can view this mimic fhew of thee,
Time has but half fucceeded in his theft-
Thy felf removed, thy power to foothe me left.
WHAT virtue or what mental grace
But men unqualified and base
Will boaft it their poffeffion?
Profufion apes the noble part
Of liberality of heart,
And dulnefs of discretion.
If every polished gem we find,
Illuminating heart or mind,
Provoke to imitation;
No wonder friendship does the fame,
That jewel of the purest flame,
Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend
The requifites that form a friend,
A real and a found one,
Nor any fool he would deceive,
But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he had found one.
Candid and generous and juft,
Boys care but little whom they truft,
An error foon corrected-
For who but learns in riper years,
That man, when smootheft he appears,
Is moft to be fufpected?
But here again a danger lies,
Left, having misapplied our eyes
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal good,
A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquifition rather rare
Is yet no fubject of despair;
Nor is it wife complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,
We fought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on fordid interest,
Or mean felf-love erected;
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