Upon his name thy murmuring tongue Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt ; For him that snowy lid hath hung In extacy, as purely felt! For him yet why the past recal To wither blooms of present bliss? Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; Thy book of life till then effaced, Love should have kept that leaf alone On which he first so dearly traced That thou wert, soul and all, my own! TO LORD VISCOUNT FORBES. FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON. ΚΑΙ ΜΗ ΘΑΥΜΑΣΗΣ ΜΗΤ' ΕΙ ΜΑΚΡΟΤΕΡΑΝ ΓΕΓΡΑΦΑ ΤΗΝ ΕΠΙΣΤΟΛΗΝ, ΜΗΔ' ΕΙ ΤΙ ΠΕΡΙΕΡΓΟΤΕΡΟΝ Η ΠΡΕΣΒΥΤΙΚΩΤΕΡΟΝ ΕΙΡΗΚΑΜΕΝ Ε AYTH.-ISOCRAT, Epist. iv. IF former times had never left a trace Could tell him, fools had dream'd as much be fore! But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, And know that ancient fools but died to make A space on earth for modern fools to take; Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given, Could lead us thus to look on earth for Heaven ; O'er dross without to shed the flame within, And dream of virtue while we gaze on sin! Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream. Rise o'er the level of his mortal state, And stamp perfection on this world at last! |