But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. 1 OH! yes, I will own we were dear to each other; true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion; Full oft have we wander'd 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 I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, You knew, but away with the vain retrospection ! Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, For the present, we part, — I will hope not for ever; To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, 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 wing'd those rosy hours The recollection seems alone Dearer than all the joys I've known, My pensive memory lingers o'er As when one parent spring supplies How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Nor mingle as before : 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 (crities know it) Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard! And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Thy soothing lays may still be read, And critics are forgot 1 These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a 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 Thonias Little, Esq."] Still I must yield those worthies merit, Bad rhymes and those who write them; I really will not fight them. 1 Perhaps they would do quite as well Now, Clare, I must return to you; In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight I think I said 't would be your fate Yet since in danger courts abound, From snares may saints preserve you; 1 A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer 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? |