Он could my mind, unfolded in my page,
Enlighten climes and mould a future age;
There as it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraught,
Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;
To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart,

And bid the tear of emulation start!
Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year,
My life, my manners, and my name endear;
And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,
Still hold communion with the wise and just!-
Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource,
When through the world it steals its secret course,
Revive but once a generous wish supprest,
Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest;
In one good deed a fleeting hour employ,
Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy;
Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere,

Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here.

Page

The Boy of Egremond

Written in a sick Chamber

To--

To a Friend on his Marriage

To the youngest Daughter of Lady * *

The Alps at Day-break

To

To the Torso

A Wish

To the Gnat

An Epitaph on a Robin-Redbreast

An Italian Song

To the Butterfly

Written in the Highlands of Scotland.

Inscription in the Crimea

Inscription for a Temple

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