Still be the song to PSYCHE dear,
The song, whose dulcet tide was given
To keep her name as fadeless, here,
Aş nectar keeps her soul, in heaven!

IMPROMPTU,

UPON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS.

O DULCES COMITUM VALETE COETUS!

Catullus.

No, never shall my soul forget

The friends 1 found so cordial hearted; Dear shall be the day we met,

And dear shall be the night we parted!

Oh! if regrets, however sweet,

Must with the lapse of time decay, Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet, Fill high to him that's far away!

Long be the flame of memory found,
Alive, when with your social glass,
Let that be still the magic round,

O'er which oblivion dares not pass !

EPISTLE VIII.

то

THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER.

ΤΟ

THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER.

NEC VENIT AD DUROS MUSA VOCATA GETAS.

Ovid ex Ponto, Lib. i. ep. 5.

FROM BUFF ALO, UPONLAKE ERIE:

THOU oft hast told me of the fairy hours Thy heart has number'd in those classic bowers,

Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit
'Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit,
And pagan spirits, by the pope unlaid,
Haunt every stream and sing through every
shade!

There still the bard, who, (if his numbers be
His tongue's light echo,) must have talk'd
like thee,

The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has
caught

Those playful sunshine holidays of thought
In which the basking soul reclines and glows,
Warm without toil and brilliant in repose.
There still he roves, and laughing loves to

see

How modern monks with ancient rakes agree;

How mitres hang, where ivy wreaths mi

twine,

And heathen Massic's damn'd for strong wine !

There too are all those wandering souls

song,

With whom thy spirit hath commun'd so lo
Whose rarest gems are, every instant, hu
By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongu
But here, alas! by Eries' stormy lake,
As far from thee, my lonely course I take,
No bright remembrance o'er the fanc
plays,

No classic dream, no star of other days
Has left that visionary glory here,

That relic of its light, so soft, so dear,

Which gilds and hallows even the rudes

scene,

The humblest shed, where genius once has

been!

All that creation's varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,

Bright lakes expand and conquering* rivers flow;

*This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the confluence of the Mis souri with the Mississippi. I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. The two rivers are much of the same breadth, each about half a league; but the Missouri is by far the most rapid, and seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through