I would not trust my heart....the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might....
But no....what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent o the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang❜rous tide
Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd....
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd,
Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp❜rous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;

* Garth.

But higher far my proud pretensions rise....
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell....time, unrevok'd, has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft....
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left..

TO THE

REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.

UNWIN, I should but ill rep ay

The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page

That would reclaim a vicious age.

II.

An union form'd, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, or in sport,

May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort,

And may as rich in comfort

As that of true fraternal love.

prove,

III.

The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,

With flow'r as sweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produc'd by nature there.

TO THE REV. WM. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

267

IV.

Not rich, I render what I may....

I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay,

Lest this should prove the last.

'Tis where it should be....in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

V.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blaz'd by art.

No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

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