MUNITO. FROM A POEM ON DOGS. THOUGH great Spadille, or that famed Prince of Lov 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; The miser's Diamond from the lover's Heart! 1818. LINES WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF VOLTAIRE'S "HISTOIRE DE CHARLES XII." THOU little Book, thy leaves unfold Thy vein is noble; meet and fit To catch and charm a youthful eye ; Thy tales are sweet, but they renew Thou bid'st me think upon the hours To laugh with laughing Mary Anne : WRITTEN IN VOLTAIRE'S " CHARLES XII." When Susan's voice of tenderness My darkest sorrows could beguile ; 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 that meeting fleeted by, Too soon those dreams of bliss were o'er. I look on thee, and think again Upon those halcyon days of gladness, Ye friends with whom I may not be, Ye forms that I have loved and left, What pleasure now shall beam on me, Of home and of your smiles bereft ? My lot and yours are parted now; And oh! I should not thus repine, 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. VOL. II. S 257 TO FLORENCE. LONG years have passed with silent pace, And unremembered- -save by thee! Sad token by thy love devised, Is all the record left of one So long bewailed, 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 Glistened the while with beauty's tear. A tear-oh! lovelier far to me, Than bright and flattering smiles could be, You strove my anguish to beguile With distant hopes of future weal; O'er desert sand and thorny brake, In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, I looked upon the gift, and sighed : And when on ocean or on clift Forth strode the Spirit of the storm, I thought upon thy fading form; And of a heart-still all thine own, Art laid in that unconscious sleep Which he that wails thee soon must know, Where none may smile, and none may weep, None dream of bliss, nor wake to woe. |