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Cling to the shrowds!" In vain! The breakers roar
Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan, Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,
No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!
Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial strains,
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ?
The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,
Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name
Of Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,
Or absent or no more!
Shades of the Past,
Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,
O dear as long as life and memory last!
I send with deep regards of heart and head,
Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou can'st not choose but shed A tear for FALKNER, wilt remember ME!
TO A YOUNG LADY.
On her Recovery from a Fever.
WHY need I say, Louisa dear!
A lovely convalescent;
Risen from the bed of pain, and fear,
And feverish heat incessant.
The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,
Their vernal loves commencing,
Will better welcome you than I,
With their sweet influencing.
Believe me, while in bed you lay,
You made us grow devouter!
Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!
SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY
Written in Germany.
If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
But in my sleep to you I fly :
I'm always with you in my sleep;
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.
Written in Germany.
"Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.
And sweet it is, in summer bower,
One's own dear children feasting round,
But what is all, to his delight,
Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,
Before the door of his own home?
Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
This feel I hourly more and more:
There's Healing only in thy wings,
Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!