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Where from the gothic casement's height,
We viewed the lake, the park, the dale, And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell.
O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
While I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss
It dared to give your slumbering eyes:
See still the little painted bark,
In which I rowed you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm I clambered for your sake.
These times are past our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; These scenes I must retrace alone;
Without thee what will they avail ?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace ? When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,
For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close,
Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu !
ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX.
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A
“Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY:
Oh, factious viper! whose envenomed tooth
He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied,
No specious splendor of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,
Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
For I am sure the giver loved me.
He offered it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it: I told him when the gift I took,
My only fear should be to lose it.
This pledge attentively I viewed,
And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedewed,
And ever since I've loved a tear.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden for the field.
'Tis not the plant upreared in sloth,
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
If well-proportioned to his mind.
But had the goddess clearly seen,
His form had fixed her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remained to give the rest.
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my
features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.