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All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy 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
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,
Wouldft softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one with bring them, would I wish them
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.--
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..
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened ille,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There fits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fapning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with fails how swift! haft reached the
shore, " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar *," And thy loved confort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since, has anchored at thy fide. 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 fome 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 fon 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,
I seem 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 still are free,
And I can view this mimic fhew of thee,
Time ha half succeeded in his theft
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe' me left.
What virtue or what mental grace. But men unqualified and base
Will boast it their pofleffion? Profusion apes
the noble part Of liberality of heart,
And dulness 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 requisites that form a friend,
A real and a sound one,
fool he would deceive, But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he had found one.
Candid and generous and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust,
An error foon corrected-
For who but learns in riper years,
That man, when smoothest he appears,
Is 'moft to be suspected?
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 acquisition rather rare
Is yet no subject of despair;
Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,
We sought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test,
That stands on sordid interest,
Or mean self-love erected;