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A FAREWELL.

ONCE more, enchanting girl, adieu!
I must be gone while yet I may.
Oft shall I weep to think of you;
But here I will not, cannot stay.

The sweet expression of that face,
For ever changing, yet the same,

Ah no, I dare not turn to trace,
It melts my soul, it fires my frame!

Yet give me, give me, ere I go,

One little lock of those so blest,
That lend your cheek a warmer glow,

And on your white neck love to rest.

-Say, when to kindle soft delight,

That hand has chanced with mine to meet,

How could its thrilling touch excite

A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say-but no, it must not be.
Adieu! A long, a long adieu!
-Yet still, methinks, you frown on me;
Or never could I fly from you.

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TO THE BUTTERFLY.

CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,
Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light;
And, where the flowers of paradise unfold,
Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!

-Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept!

And such is man; soon from his cell of clay

To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!

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WRITTEN IN

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.*

WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.†
There sleeps the dust of Him for ever gone;

How near the Scene where late his Glory shone!
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,

Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile;

* After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES Fox on Friday, October 10, 1806.

&c.

+ Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, Bossuet. Oraison funébre de Louis de Bourbon.

The illustrious line, that in long order led,

Of those, that loved Him living, mourned Him dead;

Of those the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dared be singularly good;

All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own;
And nothing wanting--but Himself alone! *

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead! †
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
(Such as He shed on NELSON's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave!)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,

The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too? ‡

* Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-Ibid.

+ Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802.

See that admirable delineation of his character by Sir James Mackintosh, which first appeared in the Bombay Courier, January 17, 1807.

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