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Here be shadows large and long ;
H, Postumus, we all must go :
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder; My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;
I've made my Will.
Dear, faithful friend
My Muse's friend and not my purse's ! Who still would hear and still commend My tedious verses,—
How will you live-of these deprived?
I've learned your candid mind. The venal
The sordid soul had scarce survived
A test so penal;
But you-Nay, nay, 'tis so.
Are not as you: you hide your merit ; You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit ;
Not gold, that hearts like yours despise ; Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression), No; but the rarer, dearer prize—
The Life's Confession!
You catch my thought? What! Can't you
You, you alone, admired my Cantos ;
I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus !
A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE
"De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu
THE Rose in the garden slipped her bud,
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing
"He is old,-so old! And he soon must die !"
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare ;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread
"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"
But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the