MUNITO. FROM A POEM ON DOGS. THOUGH great Spadille, or that famed Prince of Loo, All conqu❜ring Pam, turn backward from his view,— Swift in the noble chase, Munito tracks The Royal guests amid Plebeian packs; And though the cards in mixed confusion lie, Munito still, with more than human art, Knows Kings from Knaves, the Diamond from the Heart: Happy were men, if thus in graver things Our Knaves were always parted from our Kings; (1818.) 11* LINES WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF VOLTAIRE'S “ HIS THOU little Book, thy leaves unfold Thy vein is noble; meet and fit Thou teem'st with wonder and with wit; Thy tales are sweet, but they renew Thou bid'st me think upon the hours When glad I left Etona's bowers, To laugh with laughing Mary Anne: When Susan's voice of tenderness My darkest sorrows could beguile; When study wore its fairest dress, Alas! too soon before mine eye Was spread the page of ancient lore; Too soon those dreams of bliss were o'er. I look on thee, and think again Ye friends with whom I may not be, Ye forms that I have loved and left, My lot and yours are parted now; Long weeks must pass, ere I may greet Ere I may fly again to meet A cousin's smile, a sister's kiss. (ETON, 1820.) TO FLORENCE. LONG years have passed with silent pace, Florence, since thou and I have met; Yet when that meeting I retrace, My cheek is pale, my eye is wet; For I was doom'd from thence to rove, O'er distant tracts of earth and sea, Unaided, Florence!--save by love; And unremember'd-save by thee! We met and hope beguiled our fears, Hope, ever bright, and ever vain; We parted thence in silent tears, Never to meet-in life-again. The myrtle that I gaze upon, Sad token by thy love devised, Is all the record left of one You gave So long bewail'd-so dearly prized. it in an hour of grief, When gifts of love are doubly dear; You gave it-and one tender leaf Glisten'd the while with Beauty's tear. A tear-oh, lovelier far to me, Shed for me in my saddest hour, Than bright and flattering smiles could be, With distant hopes of future weal; O'er desert sand and thorny brake, In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm, I thought upon thy fading form; Forgot the rage of sky and sea, Forgetful of our mutual vow, And of a heart-still all thine own, Art laid in that unconscious sleep, Which he that wails thee soon must know, |