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,
Will Mary be there to receive me?
ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, -
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with
you?

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,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be justice appears a disgrace.

However, dear George, for I still must esteem you——
The few whom I love I can never upbraid
The chance which has lost may in future redeem

you,

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chilled is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calmed by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should
forgive.

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unaltered by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

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,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.

For the present, we part, I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dissension we both should endeavor,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

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
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

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,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoyed no more,

Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet- ah! never!

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise,

Together joined in vain;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the main !

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear
Till death's unfathomed gulf appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polished courts,
And shine in fashion's annals;

'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of reason;

For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteemed it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all, -
He who the lore of love expanded, -
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.*

* These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favorite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next,
By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fight them.*

Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner.
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,

A

very hardened sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:

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?