Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, "What! is this story all thine own invention ?"
Then as advancing through this mortal span, Our intercourse with the mix'd world began, Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy (A truth that from my youthful vanity Lay not concealed) did for the sisters twain, Where'er we went, the greater favour gain; While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing tide, I from the busy world had shrunk aside; And now in later years, with better grace, Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place With those whom nearer neigbourhood have made The friendly cheerers of our evening shade. With thee my humours, whether grave or gay, Or gracious or untoward, have their way. Silent if dull, oh, precious privilege!
I sit by thee; or, if called from the page Of some huge, ponderous tome which, but thyself, None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf, Thou read me curious passages to speed The winter night, I take but little heed, And thankless say, "I cannot listen now," 'Tis no offence; albeit much do I owe To these, thy nightly offerings of affection, Drawn from thy ready talent for selection; For still it seemed in thee a natural gift, The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift. By daily use and circumstance endear'd, Things are of value now that once appear'd
Of no account, and without notice past, Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast; To hear thy morning steps the stairs descending, Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending; After each stated nightly absence met, To see thee by the morning table set,
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam : To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand, On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand, For garden work prepared; in winter's gloom, From thy cool noon-day walk to see thee come, In furry garment lapp'd, with spatter'd feet, And by the fire resume thy wonted seat;
Ay, even o'er things like these, soothed age has thrown
A sober charm they did not always own. As winter hoar-frost makes minutest spray Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day In magnitude and beauty, which bereaved Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived. The change of good and evil to abide, As partners link'd, long have we side by side Our earthly journey held, and who can say How near the end of our appointed way? By nature's course not distant :-sad and reft Will she remain,-the lonely pilgrim left. If thou art taken first, who can to me Like sister, friend, and home-companion be!
Or who, of wonted daily kindness shor., Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn And if I should be fated first to leave
This earthly house, though gentle friends ma grieve,
And he above them all, so truly proved
A friend and brother, long and justly loved, There is no living wight, of woman born, Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing With sorrow and distress, for ever sharing The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day, An unadorned but not a careless lay, Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid From tardy love proceeds, though long delay'd. Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd, The latest spoken still are deem'd the best : Few are the measured rhymes I now may write These perhaps, the last I shall indite.
The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies; and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears, Than any that draws breath in Italy.
RECOLLECTIONS OF FRIENDSHIPS.
ALL these men were my friends; I loved them, they Requited honourably my regards;
We served and fought; we smiled and wept in con.
We revel'd or we sorrow'd side by side; We made alliances of blood and marriage; We grew in years and honours fairly,-till Their own desire, not my ambition, made Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell! Farewell all social memory! all thoughts
In common! and sweet bonds which link old friendships,
When the survivors of long years and actions, Which now belong to history, soothe the days Which yet remain by treasuring each other, And never meet, but each beholds the mirror Of half a century on his brother's brow, And sees a hundred beings, now on earth Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, And seeming not all dead, as long as two Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, Which once were one and many, still retain A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak
Of deeds that else were silent, save on marbleOime! Oime!-and must I do this deed?
I blame you not-you act in your vocation; They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised
So have they me: but you ne'er spake with them; You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt; You never had their wine-cup at your lips; You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, Nor held a revel in their company;
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile
In social interchange with yours, nor trusted Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have: These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, The elders of the council: I remember When all our locks were like the raven's wing, As we went forth to take our prey around The isles wrung from the false Mahometan; And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood? Each stab to them will seem my suicide.
That friendship's raised on sand, Which every sudden gust of discontent, Or flowing of our passions, can change As if it ne'er had been.
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