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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,
Without which Fancy shines in vain ;
Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius though it be,
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
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,
When I would paint thee, as thou art,
To which even Admiration's eye
Now, too, another change of light!
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!
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
TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.
THEY tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Downward again to that dear earth,
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
With love's true instinct, back to theo !