61.

Oh, could the writer of these humble lays,

Renew the hours, best friend, he's had with thee! When through the glimmer of life's twilight haze— (Like fairy forms when hoar-frost's witchery The rose-like bloom of the sun's straggling rays First catches) the fantastic imagery

Seem'd more inviting from its dubious curtain:— (Youth trusts too much to shrink from the uncertain.)

62.

Could he renew those days! Yet can he call

Charms from those days, so that his heart has leap'd! Charms, like those flowers, which, in a triumph, fall From car of conqueror, so profusely heap'd, That on all sides the ground is like a wall,

Whence, wreath'd in trellis, blooms profusely peep'd. Their roses, though they long have seem'd to pale, Commemorative fragrance still exhale.

63.

So do the thoughts, dear being! lov'd the best
Of any being that I yet have known!-

So do the thoughts, join'd with those hours so blest,
Which have been most peculiarly thine own!
Yes! of those hours though I am dispossess'd,

The streams nectarious which from them have flown, Like incense which the shrine of Vesta shaded, Immortal dwells, where it has once pervaded!

64.

One near thee, London, dwells, to whom I fain
Tribute would pay, or ere this lay I close;
Yet how can I-ungifted with a strain

Fit to arrest the ear of him who knows
To build such verse as Seraphim might deign
To listen to, nor break the deep repose
Of those immortal ardours that inspire
Spirit of inextinguishable fire-

65.

How shall I fitly speak on such a theme?
He is a treasure by the world neglected,
Because he hath not, with a prescience dim,
Like those whose every aim is self-reflected,
Pil'd up some fastuous trophy, that of him
Might tell, what mighty powers the age rejected,
But taught his lips the office of a pen-
By fools he's deem'd a being lost to men.

66.

I grant, by fools alone he is held so

But then most plentiful this genus is;

And not confin'd (as all good people know)

To exoteric illegitimacies.

Nay, capp'd and gown'd, oft, in life's raree-show,

With senatorial robe, and blazonries

Of maintenance and coronet adorn'd,

Tempted we've been its meanness to have scorn'd!

D

67.

I honour him for that neglect for which,

From vulgar minds, he hath aspersion found, Because that poor he hath become, though rich, In casting nobly on ungrateful ground, That whence more selfish souls had sought to pitch A lasting tabernacle; to confound

By its magnificence, all other men;

While in its depths they lurk'd, as in a den.

68.

No! with magnanimous self-sacrifice,

And lofty inadvertency of fame,

He felt there is a bliss in being wise,

Quite independent of the wise man's name.

Who now can say how

many a soul may

To a nobility of moral aim

rise

It ne'er had known, but for that spirit brave,

Which, being freely gifted, freely gave?

69.

Sometimes I think that I'm a blossom blighted; But this I ken, that should it not prove so,

If I am not inexorably spited

Of all, that dignifies mankind below;

By him I speak of, I was so excited,

While reason's scale was poising to and fro,

"To the better cause;" that him I have to bless

For that which it is comfort to possess.

70.

In sickness both of body and of mind,
Was he to me a friend in very deed;

When first I met him, you might likeness find,
To that state from the which my heart he freed,
In fallow meadow, equally inclin'd,

To be possess'd with good or evil seed:
Much toil he lavish'd on uncultur'd ground;
In that, if fruitless, must the fault be found.

71.

Why should we deem only that virtue lives.

Which to itself a self-erected fane

Hath built? Do we not know that Christ receives
The tribute of immortalizing strain,

From men, on whom, like dew on opening leaves,

Dropp'd the pure truths, they render'd back again. The more we practise good unconsciously,

More certainly its record is on high.

72.

Weak is my strain, yet weak is not my thought,
When on that wealth I muse in lonely hour,

Which flow'd like stream 'neath grass, unseen, whence

caught

Its tints (yet none knew 'twas so) many a bower, Which on no principle doth act, not taught

By absolute predominance of power.

But, bound, by destiny, to path sublime,
Mocks the cold confines of decaying time.

73.

As it uncalculating is in good,

Or is without an aim, commensurate
With human reckoning, notably endued
With vast facility to elevate,
So is the soul, in its deep solitude,
The holy organ prescient of Fate.
In human deeds the great we never boast
Till thought of actor in the act is lost.

74.

Weak were my muse to paint the various powers Heaven hath so copiously bestow'd on thee; The wondrous erudition, fruit of hours

Of deep, though unrecorded, industry.

The metaphysic ken, that proudly towers;

And though pitch'd high, with such keen subtlety And glance discriminative, all things eyes"Tis not for me aptly to eulogize!

75.

Less, should a hand which trembles as it creeps,
With touch all unprecise, o'er its light lyre,
Dare to commemorate one who deftly sweeps,
With emulative skill, and Milton's fire,