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FROM A POEM ON DOGS.
Though great Spadille, or that famed Prince of Loo,
WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF VOLTAIRE'S “HIS
TOIRE DE CHARLES XII.”
Tuou little Book, thy leaves unfold
A tale of wonder and of glory,
Adorn the pages of thy story.
Thy vein is noble; meet and fit
To catch and charm a youthful eye;
And yet I look on thee, and sigh :
Thy tales are sweet, but they renew
Visions how sad, yet, ah, how dear!
And recollection wakes a tear.
Thou bid'st me think upon the hours
When giddy Tizy round me ran;
To laugh with laughing Mary Anne:
When Susan's voice of tenderness
My darkest sorrows could beguile;
WRITTEN IN VOLTAIRE'S CHARLES XII. 251
When study wore its fairest dress,
Adorned by good Eliza's smile.
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
Upon those halcyon days of gladness,
A mournful bliss, a pleasing sadness.
Ye friends with whom I may not be,
Ye forms that I have loved and left,
Of home and of your smiles bereft?
My lot and yours are parted now;
And oh! I should not thus repine,
The happiness—which is not mine.
Long weeks must pass, ere I may greet
The glad return of former bliss,-
A cousin's smile, a sister's kiss. (Eron, 1820.)
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 doon’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
So long bewail d—so dearly prized. You gave 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,
In courtly hall or summer bower, You strove my anguish to beguile,
With distant hopes of future weal ; You strove !—alas! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel. I bore the gift Affection gave,
O’er desert sand and thorny brake, O'er rugged rock and stormy wave,
I loved it for the giver's sake; And often in my happiest day,
In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, When all around was glad and gay,
I look'd upon the gift—and sigh’d: And when on ocean, or on clift,
Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm, I gazed upon thy fading gift,
I thought upon thy fading form ; Forgot the lightning's vivid dart,
Forgot the rage ot' sky and sea, Forgot the doom that bade us part
And only lived to love and thee. Florence ! thy myrtle blooms! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone, 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,