Thou who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of æther's space;

Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me
hence,

Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.

To Thee, my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.

If, when this dust to dust 's restored,
My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!

But, if this fleeting spirit share

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With clay the grave's eternal bed, While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.

To Thee I breathe my humble strain,
Grateful for all thy mercies past,
And hope, my God, to thee again
This erring life may fly at last.
December 29, 1806.

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Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions as before; 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.

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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 unmoved misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh, may my bosom never learn

To soothe 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.

Though now on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

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And all my former joys are tame. But, hence ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose.

Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; Eis a wife, and C- a mother,

And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall:

In truth, dear LONG, 't was time to flee;
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confined to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her,
Whose sun displays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And passion's self is now a name.
As, when the ebbing flames are low,

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The aid, which once improved their light

And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

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These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know "I was thine to break the bonds of loving

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother; 10
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

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!

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"T were vain and fruitless to regret thee;

Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

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 polish'd 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 esteem'd 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 favourite of the Nine !
Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

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