Epistle to an Absent Friend.
"Whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return-not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain-
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you."
DISTANT, but dear! accept this pensive verse!
I thought to live apart from thee a curse—
And deemed no after-sorrow could be worse:
To lose thy converse, candid, pleasant, bland-
To miss the cordial grasping of thy hand-
To hear no more what I had heard so long—
Flashes of wit attemper'd well, though strong-
Smiles of good humour, and rich treats of song,
Which shone upon my soul's too frequent gloom,
And served its dark recesses to illume;
'Twas a deep pang indeed to part with these-
Yet there was still a thought to give me ease-
A hope to comfort, and a dream to please:
I knew 'twas not thy wish that we should part,
And trusting to thy constancy of heart,
I hoped thy friendly hand would forge for me,
Those chains that bind far souls in amity,
Though 'tween them mountains rise and rolls the sea-
Ever-enduring, but not painful fetters-
All-eloquent, and bliss-bestowing letters!
I grant there's joy in loitering the hours
Away in summer's thick and shady bowers ;-
I know there's bliss in watching the bright flowers-
And poesy in lying down to sigh
Where some clear river murmurs gently by;
But more than all, I know how wildly dear
It is, when the pale moon is shining clear,
To walk the forest with one fond and fair-
Breathing without a pang of doubt or fear,
The vows which it is more than heaven to hear.
But ev'n from pleasures rapturous as these,
You sure could snatch an hour, and kindly seize
Your pen to give my anxious bosom ease:
I long to have once more our ancient chat
About old whims, old friendships, and all that;
Even on state affairs I would renew
Our old debates, though no debater you-
Nor cool enough to look such matters through ;-
Then, my forgetful friend, I prithee write-
And if you've no time else-sit up to-night.
Have you then quite forgot the busy town,
And all the city joys that brightly shone,
Ere rural pleasures made you thus their own?
Have you then quite forgot your London cares,
And do you scorn to ask of its affairs-
Can king and parliament, and park, and play,
(Ah! once what so omnipotent as they?)
No longer lure a single thought this way?
I grant these may be powerless to command,
But friendship has a claim on heart and hand.
Then listen to that claim, and pen for me
One of those bright epistles, pure and free,
Which well I know flow easily from thee.
I care not whether grave or gay the style,
Whether it make me sad, or bid me smile ;-
Treated by thee alike is every theme,
Dear is the wild and visionary dream—
Dear even is reproach, and dear each gleam
Of your satiric wit-although it be
Aimed with a friend's sincerity at me.
"Thou, too, art gone, thou loved and lovely one!
Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me;
Who did for me what none beside have done,
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee:
What is my being ?—thou hast ceased to be!
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and belov'd!
How selfish sorrow ponders o'er the past, And clings to thoughts now better far remov'd!
But time shall tear thy shadow from me last
All thou couldst have of mine, stern death! thou hast;
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend:
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,
Hath snatched the little joy that life had still to lend."
A LAY to early hopes and early loves
I fain would give, and to dear times gone by,
In whose reminiscences my bosom proves
Its purest pleasures-joys that do not die,
And though they claim a tear or wake a sigh,
Are cherished faithfully, and have a power
Mingled of sweet and sad, whose mastery
I hail in retrospection's frequent hour,
More fondly than the strains of mirth in beauty's bower.
"Soul of my thought!"-my own! my loved! my
In hours like these I am in heaven with thee! And though tempestuously my bark be tost
Upon life's shoreless and tumultuous sea, Thou art the guiding star that shines for me— The light o'er which no darkening cloud may stray, And which shall shine for aye resplendently,
Leading my steps in virtue's even way,
And shaming falser lights that shine but to betray!
For thy sake I rejoice that all is o'er
With thee, of pain and sorrow ;—yet I mourn
Deeply and bitterly, that never more
Thy form shall bless the eyes and hearts that
To view thee once again, and fondly turn
Their thoughts to hours when thou could'st hear their
And with a sympathetic feeling burn;
These hours to me are dearer far than all
The days in joyance spent that memory can recal.
Even now I traverse each accustomed walk,
And court the scenes that still are rife with thee;
In fancy with thy chainless spirit talk,
And learn the secrets of the blest and free.
And this communion hath a joy for me
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