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Again I revisit the hills where we sported, (fought;

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we The school where, loud warned by the bell, we resorted,

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. Again 1 behold where for hours I have pondered,

As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wandered,

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While to swell my young pride such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone:

Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation,

By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived ; Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,

I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you ;

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,

While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,

More dear is the beam of the past to my soul.

But if, through the course of the years which await me,

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, “Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.”


When Friendship or Love

Our sympathies move, When Truth in a glance should appear,

The lips may beguile

With a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile

But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fear;

Give me the soft sigh,

While the soul-telling eye
Is dimmed for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow

To us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;

Compassion will melt

Where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doomed to sail

With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave

Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death

For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career ;

But he raises the foe

When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear

If with high-bounding pride

He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crisoned spear,

All his toils are repaid

When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth!

Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,

Loth to leave thee, I mourned,

For a last look I turned, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I

can pour To my Mary no more, My Mary to Love once so dear,

In the shade of her bower

I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,

May she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere :

With a sigh I resign

What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near;

If again we shall meet

In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight

To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,

As ye pass by the tomb

Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendor of woe
Which the children of vanity rear.

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name;
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear.


In thee I fondly hoped to clasp

A friend, whom death alone could sever ; Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Detached thee from my breast for ever.

True, she has forced thee from my breast,

Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ;
There, there thine image still must rest,

Until that heart shall cease to beat.

And, when the grave restores her dead,

When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head —

Without thee, where would be my heaven?


Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear,
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honored bier !
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course,
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force,
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honor, and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;

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