Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow: But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, Он! TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. yes, I will own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherished for you. But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion; The attachment of years in a moment expires: Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. Full oft have we wandered through Ida together, And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. No more with affection shall memory blending, However, dear George, for I still must esteem you—— you, Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. I will not complain, and though chilled is affection, You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, You knew, but away with the vain retrospection! The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, For the present, we part, I will hope not for ever; TO THE EARL OF CLARE. "Tu semper amoris Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." VAL. FLAC. FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings, mutually beloved, With friendship's purest glow, The bliss which winged those rosy hours The recollection seems alone Dearer than all the joys I've known, When distant far from you: Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, My pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes regretted ever; As when one parent spring supplies Together joined in vain; How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Now swift or slow, now black or clear Our souls, my friend! which once supplied 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, For sense and reason (critics know it) Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard! * These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Thy soothing lays may still be read, Still I must yield those worthies merit, Bad rhymes, and those who write them; I really will not fight them.* Perhaps they would do quite as well A very hardened sinner. Now, Clare, I must return to you; Accept, then, my concession. severe critique, in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon.[See Edinburgh Review, July, 1807, article on "Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, by Thomas Little, Esq."] * A bard [Moore] (horresco referens) defied his reviewer [Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? |