HE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
Andill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;

And they have done their duty well,-
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;

That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think In other hands its notes were such.

Let him who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; The chain is broke, the music mute. 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

BSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong!
As all can tell, who share, like me,
In turn thy converse and thy song.

But when the dreaded hour shall come
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh,
And "MEMORY" o'er her Druid's tomb
Shall weep that aught of thee candie,

How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, And blend, while ages roll away, Her name immortally with thine!

April 19, 1812.

The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,

But drag or drive us on to die

Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known

Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven.

To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain ;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.

Yet even that pain was some relief,
It felt, but still forgot thy power;
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;

Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to woe;

For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee-not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art A blank; a thing to count and curse, Through each dull tedious trifling part,

Which all regret, yet all rehearse.