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?
Thou'rt now my own, I clasp thee all,
And Heaven can grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;
I would be first, be sole to thee;
Thoushouldst but have begun to live
The hour that gave thy heart to me.

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!

EPISTLE VI.

TO

LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

VOL. II.

7

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
Of human frailty in their shadowy race,
Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran,
One dark memorial of the crimes of man;
If every age, in new unconscious prime,
Rose, like a phoenix, from the fires of time,
To wing its way unguided and alone,
The future smiling and the past unknown;
Then ardent man would to himself be new,
Earth at his foot and Heaven within his view,
Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme
Of full perfection prompt his daring dream,
Ere cold Experience, with her veteran lore,

Could tell him, fools had dream'd as much be

fore!

But, tracing as we do, through age and clime,
The plans of virtue 'midst the deeds of crime,
The thinking follies and the reasoning rage
Of man, at once the idiot and the sage;
When still we see, through every varying frame
Of arts and polity, his course the same,

And know that ancient fools but died to make

A space on earth for modern fools to take;
'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget;
That Wisdom's self should not be tutor❜d yet,
Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth
Of pure perfection 'midst the sons of earth!

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.
Might sages still pursue the flattering theme
Of days to come, when man shall conquer Fate,

Rise o'er the level of his mortal state,
Belie the monuments of frailty past,

And stamp perfection on this world at last!