FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,

Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;

Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even those themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could in-
spire,

My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to
love?

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride;

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his whose neglect may have made thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds
gently heal;

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a stranger would feel?

Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile;

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,

When Infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,
For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display.

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
"Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er:
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate

no more.

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast;
Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the|
last.

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er
meet;

If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay
And here he must sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

1807.

LINES.

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.*

Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet-AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee;
The present-which seals our eternal adieu.

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.*

1807.

YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish
around,

And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

• See Fragment, page 560.

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus ?-is it as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

⚫ See Fragment, page 571.