Talent and beauty, and the heart's warm glow,
Gilding with Heavenly light his path below,
Few with such rare felicity have won,
In that rich prize, a dear and only son;
And fewer but those faculties would doom
To the soft prison of a pamper'd home;
Check his bold wishes when they soar'd on high,
And see well-pleas'd each early vision die;
But ye, enweaving, as to me appears,
With his bright hopes, those of maturer years,
Hallowing the web, with all that parents feel,
The saintly trust in Heav'n, the patriot's zeal,
The aching doubts, that still tenacious wind
Around the lofty and the tender mind;
Ye, with a more than Roman virtue, yield,
To the proud strife of Albion's liquid field,
This darling; and, in whispers, bid him wear
The finest wreath that buds and blossoms there;
And I could almost say I heard a strain
Pronounce—the sacrifice should not be vain!

Behold the semblance of thy flower!

I could not fill its leaves with dew,

Shew its tints varying with the hour,

Its motion as the zephyrs blew.

And beauty too were more complete,

Appearing on the native stem,

In midst of buds and blossoms sweet,

And catching graces, charms from them.

Or blooming under eyes like thine,

Whose fond, soft gaze, whose tender tear,

Must also, losing power divine,

Awake no answering sweetness here.

For much of loveliness must sleep,

E'en when inspir'd and led by truth;

The faithful pencil aims to keep

Mildness and innocence and youth.

An Hour was before me, no creature more bright,
More airy, more joyous, e'er sprang on my sight.
To catch and to fetter I instantly tried,
And "thou art my slave, pretty vagrant," I cried.

I had hold, and securely I thought, of its wing,
O! how I shall glory, so lovely a thing
To place by the cradle of friendship, and see,
With the aid of my captive, if I can be free.

Oh! while she is with me, some means may be found
To temper the air and to hallow the ground—
To make those entangling bind-weeds decay,
Drive Suspicion, who rear'd them, for ever away,
And leave all around, kind, and healthful, and gay!

When this can be compass'd, I'll build me a bower,
And twine in the trellice each sweet-scented flower—
Rare, delicate plants, whose large, fresh leaves shall fling
Green shadows, where birds in the stillness may sing.

A place of repose, when the spirit is faint,
And the heart wants to utter a passing complaint:
Of safety; for pure and serene be the air,
And nothing unkind or unholy be there!

In this sacred retreat I my cares would confide,
And there my half-forming opinions should hide;
If true, gather strength for the brightness of day—
If false, in the shade, unreprov'd, die away!

How fondly I nourish'd these hopes, but in vain!
The calm and the stillness I could not retain;
My Hour fled away, every wish unfulfill'd,
And warm'd not the Friendship Suspicion had chill'd!

Hopes all glowing, Wishes rare,

Blessings mixed with many a Prayer,

Flowers as yet beyond compare,

Though flourishing in northern air.

Farewells twined with tender Fears,

Golden day-dreams, gemm'd with tears,

Affections nurtur'd many years,

Before this perfect bloom appears.

Thoughts of fondness and of pride,

Love-vanities we need not hide;

Heart-blossoms, in its crimson dyed,

For you, are here together tied.

And yet they all appear too poor,

Though goodness can ensure no more;

Though monarchs, whom the world adore,

Would purchase such with all their store.

And while this charmed gift we send,

We know where'er your footsteps bend,

The looks and tones that win the friend,

That kindness, nature, truth, attend,

Are yours, and must be with you still,

Angelic guards, go where they will,

To ward off much surrounding ill,

And happiest destinies fulfil.

Believing love was all a bubble,

And wooing but a needless trouble,

Damon grew fond of posied rings,

And many such romantic things;

But whether it were Fortune's spite,

That study wound his brain too tight,

Or that his fancy play'd him tricks,

He could not on the lady fix.

He look'd around,

And often found,

A damsel passing fair;

"She's good enough," he then would cry,

And rub his hands, and wink his eye,

"I'll be enamour'd there!"

He thus resolved; but had not power

To hold the humour "half an hour"—

And critics, vers'd in