What follows are the concluding verses of a poem addressed to the Earl of

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Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth's secure, unerring way,

May no delights decoy ;

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy.

Oh! if you wish, that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your hrow;

Be, still, as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,
Be, still, as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear;

Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd wave at once a poet's fame,

To prove a prophet here.

The next extract is from a poem to

E. N. L. Esq.

Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy,

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing,
Will shed around some dews of spring;
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers,
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears unmov'd, Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn,

To sooth its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days,
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,

Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,

And even in age, at heart a child.

Other similar passages might be quoted. But with all this occasional difference of feeling, there are breakings forth of the same spirit, which afterwards displayed itself; and it is remarkable that where these appear, the expression becomes more energetic.

Few are my years, and, yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me;
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I lov'd-but those I lov'd are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;

How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl,
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,

Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart the heart is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those,

Whom rank, or chance,-whom wealth, or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour!

Give me again, a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boisterous joy is but a name.

One poem relates to a romantic story of an attachment, which he had felt, while a boy, to a lady considerably older than himself; and the disappointment of which he was fond of representing, as having had a very melancholy effect upon his morals and happiness. It is the same story to which he alludes in his "Dream." "Dream."

The

following is from the poem first mentioned.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any ;
But what it sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful maid,

"Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matrons' fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures—

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For nature seem'd to smile before thee;

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.

But, now, I seek for other joys,

To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.

Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,

To know, that thou art lost for ever.