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SISTER, far from thee I'm gone ;
And often, silent and alone,
Sudden starts a willing tear.
Which would not fall if thou wert here;

But thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell ?

How quick our meeting days have passed !
But human pleasures will not last ;
And Learning's all-consuming power
Hastened on our parting hour.

But thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell ?

But quickly still from day to day
Flies the hasty time away ;
Fraught with hope and sportive glee,
I'll soon revisit home and thee;

Whilst thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell ?

But stay, I wrong thee, gentle dove,
I know I wrong thy tender love;
Oft thine eye will shed a tear,
Which would not fall if I were near ;

Yes, yes, my Susan, I can tell,
Oft thy thoughts on me will dwell.

FEBRUARY 14, 1816.



WHEN weeping friends are parting,
Oh then their hearts are smarting!
But when they're just returning,
Oh then their hearts are burning!

They're merry all,

Nor once recall
The tear they shed at parting.

FEBRUARY 14, 1817.



TELL me, little darling Dove,
Whence and whither dost thou rove?

I am in haste; a brother tied
This doggrel greeting to my side ;
May every good my Sister bless-
Life, virtue, health, and happiness;
Not vulgar mirth, but modest sense;
Not mines of gold, but competence;
With these her bark may peaceful glide,
Uninjured, down life's swelling tide.
May soft Content’s all-healing power
Stand ready for each suffering hour,
Enhance the good the Fates bestow,
And mitigate the pangs
Each year may an adoring crew
New Valentines around her strew;
Be every page, be every line,
As ardent, as sincere, as mine !

of woe.

FEBRUARY 14, 1817.



Each god has left his heavenly seat,

Olympus, for a while;
And animates a mortal shape

In Britain's favoured isle:
Ye Deities, no thin disguise
Conceals ye from a poet's eyes!

Jove thunders as Britannia's King,

And Bacchus is his son ;
And Byron strikes Apollo's lyre ;

And Mars is Wellington.
Like Neptune, Exmouth rules the sea,
But lovely Venus smiles in thee.

Yet not alone does Venus smile;

For there are joined in thee
The Muses' verse, Minerva's sense,

And Juno's majesty:
The Graces o'er thy figure rove,
And every feature beams with Love.




VIRTUE, (a nymph you well must know,) Met gently warbling Erato : And after bows, and “how d’ye do "8, She thus addressed the smiling Muse : “ How is it, tell me, Erato, That you

and I such strangers grow ? If at your



foot I set, Flat ‘Not at home'is all I get: When first you called a meeting there, And Phæbus deigned to take the chair, The sire of men, of gods the king, Your patron, Jove,—he bade you sing Not those who in false glory shine, But those who bow to Virtue's shrine; And scorn you Jove ? For now I deem That Virtue is your rarest theme ! Calliope, when war she sings, Forgets the truth to flatter kings; Euterpe thinks me low and mean, Thalia drives me from her scene,

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