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Hearts melt: but melt like ice, soon harder froze.
True love strikes root in reason ; passion's foe:
Virtue alone entenders us for life;
I wrong her much-entenders us for ever.
Of Friendship’s fairest fruits, the fruit most fair
Is virtue kindling at a rival fire,
And, emulously, rapid in her race.
O the soft enmity! endearing strife!
This carries friendship to her noontide point,
And gives the rivet of eternity.



I HAD a friend that loved me; I was his soul; he lived not but in me; We were so close within each other's breast, The rivets were not found that joined us first, That doth not reach us yet: we were so mixed, As meeting streams: both to ourselves were lost. We were one mass, —we could not give or take, But from the same; for he was s; I, he: Return, my better half, and give me all myself, For thou art all! If I have any joy when thou art absent, I grudge it to myself; methinks I rob Thee of thy part.



Old acquaintance, shall the nights

You and I once talked together, Be forgot like common thingsLike some dreary night that brings

Naught, save foul weather?

We were young, when you and I

Talked of golden things together-
Of love and rhyme, of books and men;
Ah! our hearts were buoyant then

As the wild-goose feather!

Twenty years have fled, we know,

Bringing care and changing weather ; But hath the heart no backward flights, That we again may see those nights,

And laugh together?

Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun,

Renews the past year's mouldering feather: Ah, why not you and I, then, soar From age to youth—and dream once more

Long nights together ?




DEAR LAMB, I drink to thee-to thee
Married to sweet Liberty !
What! old friend, and art thou freed
From the bondage of the pen ?
Free from care and toil, indeed ?
Free to wander among men
When and howsoe'er thou wilt ?
All thy drops of labor spilt
On those huge and figured pages,
Which will sleep unclasped for ages,
Little knowing who did wield
The quill that traversed their white held ?

Come-another mighty health !
Thou hast earn'd thy sum of wealth
Countless ease-immortal leisure
Days and nights of boundless pleasure,
Checker'd by no dream of pain,
Such as hangs on clerk-like brain
Like a nightmare, and doth press
The happy soul from happiness.

Oh! happy thou—whose all of tiine
Day and eve, and morning prime;


Is fill'd with talk on pleasant themes-
Or visions quaint, which come in dreams
Such as panther'd Bacchus rules,
When his rod is on the schools,"
Mixing wisdom with their wine-
Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine
Strayeth in some elder book
Whereon our modern Solons look,
With severe ungifted eyes,
Wondering what thou seest to prize.
Happy thou, whose skill can take
Pleasure at each turn, and slake
Thy thirst by every fountain's brink,
Where less wise men would pause to shrink :
Sometimes 'mid stately avenues
With Cowley thou, or Marvel's muse,
Dost walk; or Gray, by Eton towers ;
Or Pope, in Hampton's chestnut bowers ;
Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream;
Or dost thou with our Milton dream
Of Eden and the Apocalypse,
And hear the words from his great lips

Speak-in what grove or hazel shade,
For “musing meditation made,"
Dost wander ?-or on Penshurst lawn,
Where Sidney's fame had time to dawn
And die, ere yet the hate of Men
Could envy at his perfect pen?
Or, dost thou, in some London street
(With voices fill'd and thronging feet)

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Loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay-
Or take, along some pathway sweet,
Thy calm suburbon way?
Happy beyond that man of Ross,
Whom mere content could ne'er engross,
Art thou—with hope, health, “ learned leisure,”
Friends, books, thy thoughts-an endless pleasure!
-Yet-yet-(for when was pleasure made
Sunshine all without a shade?)
Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest
Through the busy scenes thou lovest,
With an Idler's careless look,
Turning some moth-pierced book,
Feel'st a sharp and sudden wo
For visions vanished long ago!
And then, thou think'st how time has fled
Over thy unsilvered head,
Snatching many a fellow mind
Away, and leaving-what ?-behind !
Naught, alas ! save joy and pain
Mingled ever, like a strain
Of music where the discords vie
With the truer harmony.
So, perhaps, with thee the vein
Is sullied ever-so the chain
Of habits and affections old,
Like a weight of solid gold,
Presseth on thy gentle breast,
Till sorrow rob thee of thy rest.

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