To part, what, trembler, dost thou fear?

Say, art thou still delusion's slave?

Shall lingering love not drop one tear,

What time thy form shall press its grave?

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

OFT has the curious minstrel sung

In many a wild untutored lay

Of dreams, that o'er his fancy hung,

What time he mourned the lingering day;

And shall the lyre neglected sleep,

When love forbids his heart to weep?

Ah no! tho o'er the morn of life

The lowering clouds tempestuous form,

And with detraction's murderous strife

Ride envy, fury of the storm,

These shall not aye the soul oppress,

If friendship live, and live to bless.

Then let the peaned hymn aspire,

Nor longer court unholy gloom;

Let happier music wake thy lyre,

Than haunts the precincts of the tomb.

Ill suits complaint the Muse's sway,

Her glory sheds immortal day.

What, tho thy youth unblest has known

Those thousand ills, which rend the heart,

The sneer of pride, of vice the frown,

Hope's false caress, and slander's smart?

Unworthy thou her wreaths to bind

Could these disturb thy tranquil mind.

Say, can thy thankless soul repine,

When hope's bright influence courts thy hours?

When pure affection's smiles are thine,

And strewed thy path with chariest flowers?

She, thy full soul's unrivalled choice,

She breathes to thee the inspiring voice.

O! envied lot, O! happy state,

When souls in perfect union join,

Taste, beauty, virtue, crown thy fate,
The heart of love, the mind divine;

Chaste, as the blameless wish of truth,
Grace wins in purple light' of youth.

Forbear, fond friend, nor sketch once more

Those sacred charms, which fill my soul;

How true I love, how fond adore,

Yields not expression's swift control:

Deep in my breast the flame shall burn,

Till friendship close my wintry urn.

Too blest, since every ardent thought
High fancy drew in happiest mood,
Too blest, since all the Muse has taught,
Meet in that form in conscious good;
Too blest, in silent joy I gaze,

Yet dare not trust the voice in praise.

Then spare thy zeal, nor deem it rude,

If pours the bard no courtly lays;

Shall passion's faltering speech intrude,

When silence looks unquestioned praise?

The stream, whose current deepest flows,
Scarce starts the ear's profound repose.

Know then, in life's tumultuous scene,

Where'er the fates his footsteps guide, Thy friend shall press with eye serene,

If charm at home his darling pride;

Her magic look his soul shall cheer,
And light a smile on sorrow's tear.

O! be his lot, the bliss supreme,

When age forbids the mind to rove, Wrapt in affection's hallowed dream,

To own the soothing powers of love; Ne'er may that hope of heaven depart, Till life's last thrill desert his heart.