Unless his heart is deaden'd by the touch
Of that mere worldliness, which bugs itself
In a factitious apathy of soul;

Unless, in vain and vacant ignorance,

He wondering smiles at those high sympathies,
Those pure unworldly feelings, which exalt
Our nature o'er the sphere of actual things;
Which lend the poet's gaze its ectasy,

And bid the trembling note of music steal
Tears down the listener's cheek ;-it cannot be
But his whole heart must soften and relent
Amid these peaceful scenes; but the deep griefs
Which time has stamp'd upon his furrow'd brow
Must for a moment smooth their thoughtful trace;
And e'en the long remorse wild passion leaves,
Rest from the goading of its secret sting.
Scene of my boyish years! I not disown
These natural feelings. Let me rest awhile
Here on this grassy bank; beneath these elms
Whose high boughs murmur with the leafy sound
That sooth'd me when a child: when, truant-like,
Of the dull chime that summon'd me afar
Nought heeding, by the river-wave I lay,
Of liberty enamour'd, and the Muse.
As yon gray turrets rest in trembling shade
On its transparent depth, the days long past
Press on awaken'd fancy; when, averse
From sport, I wander'd on its loneliest banks,
Where not a sound disturb'd the quiet air
But such as fitly blends with silentness;
The whispering sedge-the ripple of the stream,
Or bird's faint note: and not a human trace,
Save of some hamlet-spire in woods immerst,
Spake to the sight of earth's inhabiters.

Then have I rush'd, prone from the topmost bank,
And given my limbs to struggle with the stream,
And midst those waters felt a keener life.
How soft thy milky temperature of wave,
Salubrious Thames! associate with delight
Thy stream to thrilling fancy flows, when faint
I languish in the sun-blaze; and with thee
Ingenuous friendships, feats of liberty
That reck'd not stern controul, and gravely sweet
The toils of letter'd lore, and the kind smile.
Of Him,* who, e'en upbraiding, could be kind,

On

* Of Mr. Savage, whose name must ever be associated with the blandi doctores of Horace, let me be permitted to indulge the remembrance. His system of tuition was calculated to exemplify the theory of the admirable Locke. He made instruction pleasant; and was therefore listened to and obeyed on a prin

On sooth'd remembrance throng. I would not feign
A fond repining which I did not feel;
I would not have the intermediate years
Roll back to second infancy, nor live
Again the life that haunts my memory thus
With sweet sensations: for the simple child
Is all unconscious of his pleasant lot;
His little world, like man's vast universe,
Is darken'd by its storms; and he, like man,
Creates his own disquietudes and fears;
And oft with murmurings vain of discontent,
Or bursts of idle passion, personates
His future part; the character of man.
No-'tis the cant of mock misanthropy

That dwells on childish pleasures; which the child
With light insensibility enjoys,

Or rather scorns; while on his eager view
The future prospect opens, still in sight,
Still ardently desir'd. The Power all-wise
Alike to manhood and to infancy

Has dealt the dole of pleasures and of pains;
And manhood has its toys; its happy dreams;
Its gay anticipations, e'en as youth.
Not with a sigh of mournful, vain regret
I visit these green haunts; this placid stream;
But, while the scene to memory's retrospect
Reflects th' illusive tint which fancy throws
Upon the distant past, Hope too expands
Her gilded prospects; and the future smile;
With colours indistinct, but beautiful

As the dim clouds by gleams of daybreak ting'd
Ere the red sun-rise paints the mountain's brow;
I so am fram'd, that no depressing gloom
Has power to damp my shaping energies;
But still, as when a child, my glance can dart
Bright o'er the illumin'd future, and create
Its own ideal world of hope and joy.

ciple of love. Should these insignificant pages ever meet his eye, he may not be displeased to find that

The muse attends him to the silent shade.

I trust I shall be forgiven the excusable egotism, of paying this tribute of gratitude and respect to an elegant scholar, and most amiable man.

SYBILLE.

Gay summor smil'd on Bothall bowers;
The setting sun's resplendent beam
Illumin'd fair Mitford's mossy towers,
Tinging with gold the living stream.

High o'er the flood the castle steep
Rear'd its proud head in feudal state;
Wav'd the broad banner on the keep;
Frown'd darkly grim the arched gate..

No pleasant sound of wassel gay

Rung round Lord Bertram's splendid board;
Dark frowning, like his turrets grey,
Sate at the feast the haughty lord.

With Norman William Bertram came;
De Mitford's lovely heir he saw;
The conqueror own'd his favorite's claim;
And William's word was England's law.

Vainly the suppliant fair-one knelt,
Vainly she spurn'd a foreign yoke;
The King nor love nor pity felt-
She wept, but yielded to the stroke.

Not long she wept. Two lingering years
Two lovely smiling babes had given,
Still faster flow'd the mother's tears,

Till her soul sought its native heaven.

Goodly and brave, the youthful heir

To battle leads his father's power; And gay, and innocent, and fair,

His Sybille blooms; a northern flower!

And now, the Baron leaves the hall;
His chieftains pass the goblet round,
When from the castle's outer wall
Arose a harp's melodious sound.

Dark brows and rugged breasts had they;
But, who the minstrel's power withstands?
Who loves not well the rapturous lay,
Or pleasant tales from distant lands?

Well pleas'd the stubborn warriors smil'd;
The iron gates were backward flung:
And soon the harper's descant wild
Through Mitford's echoing turrets rung.

And