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How freshly doth my mind recall,

'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all,

Floats in the wake of memory ;

When he, the poet, doubly graced,

In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,

Without which Fancy shines in vain ;

Who in his page will leave behind,

Pregnant with genius though it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,

Where Sense o'er all holds mastery :

Friend of long years ! of friendship tried

Through many a bright and dark event; In doubts, my judge — in taste, my guide

In all, my stay and ornament !

He, too, was of our feast that day,

And all were guests of one, whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray

Around the lyre of this great land;

. The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at bis house at Sydenham.

In whose sea-odes as in those shells

Where Ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound – immortal dwells

Old Albion’s Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and though, since then,

Slight clouds have ris’n ’twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again,

Stretch'd forth again in amity ?

Who can, in this short life, afford

To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word,

Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day though one

Unworthy brother there bad place; As 'mong the horses of the Sun,

One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, next to Genius is the power

Of feeling where true Genius lies; And there was light around that hour

Such as, in memory, never dies ;

Light which comes o'er me, as I gaze,

Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanish'd days,

Brightly, indeed - but mournfully!

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

WHEN I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor ’mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

When I would paint thee, as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart-
The graceful child, in beauty's dawn,
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out like a young moon
Upon a world ’t will brighten soon.
Then next, in girlhood’s blushing hour,
As from thy own lov'd Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown
Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away; -
Or, in the world's resplendent throng,
As I have mark’d thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,

To which even Admiration's eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh ;-
A creature, circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source,
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa through the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light!
As noble bride, still meekly bright,
Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman's love;
And show'st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose thus high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watch'd thee through so bright hath been, The' enamour'd Muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,

The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on him

self.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,

And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life, that fills and warms

Its grateful being, first had birth.

'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,

And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,

With love's true instinct, back to theo !

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