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, 'tis 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.
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favorite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot:
Thy soothing rays may still be read, When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
Still must I yield those worthies merit, Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them; And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm 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.
I must return to you;
And sure apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession. in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right, My muse admires digression.
I think I said 'twould be your fate To add one star to royal state,
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may saints preserve you! And grant your love nor friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care
But those who best deserve you!
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 brow,
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;
While blessing your beloved name, I'd waive at once a poet's fame, To prove a prophet here.
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER
CANDOR Compels me, BEECHER! to commend The verse which blends the censor with the friend. Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. For this wild error which pervades my strain, I sue for pardon,- must I sue in vain ? The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart; Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, Limping Decorum lingers far behind; Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, Outstript and vanquished in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love: Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove: Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power, Their censures on the hapless victim shower. Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, Whose labored lines in chilling numbers flow, To paint a pang the author ne'er can know !
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