1825.] 
How can I loath the love I bore 
To innocence and truth ? 
Or my own envious age deplore 
’ The blessings’ of my youth? 
For let but.virtue, hand ia hand 
With youthful passion go, 
The love that’s knit,with reason’s band 
Repentance ne’er shall know. 
Then, Stella! though the fires decay 
That! lit me to thy arms, 
Nor distant far'the envious day 
Shall ditn thy mellowing charms ; 
Bsigt 17 
Tho’ youthful days return no more, 
Remembrance shall remain, 
‘And past delights recounted o’er, 
Shall give delight again. 
Let memory, then, the record true 
OF youthful passion bring, 
And, o’er the wintery hearth, renew 
The blooming joys of spring. 
i bee 
_ Carlisle, Aug. 1804. 
A REMEMBRANCE. 
‘Tuenre is a feeling at my heart, 
- By feeling only scann’d ;=~ 
‘A bosom’d pang ; a cherish’d smart ; 
A throb, from which I cannot part, 
‘Though rankling like a venom’d dart 
' Shot by some treacherons hand ! 
There is a name I cannot bear 
To name myself —but less to hear, 
Which yet in joy, and yet in care, 
‘The dotage of my thought will share, 
Such deep affection graves it there 
Eyen to resentment dear ! 
“There is an image in mine eye 
» That darkness cannot hide: 
Tt claims the tear, it swells the sigh, 
Deepens my grief, and dims my joy ; 
From which I cannot wish to fly, 
And could not if I tried. 
O, Memory! where’s the potent ait, 
And where’s the magic wand, 
Can conjure from the wounded heart 
The fond affection, or the smart 
The throbs of blighted hope impart,— 
Blighted by filial hand? 
: SONG. 
Yes—be thou ‘pensive, be thou gay— 
In joy, in grief, I’ll love thee, love ! 
Thy tear, thy smile, the star the while 
My pulse shall still obey, my love! . 
Dll weep with thee, I'll laugh with thee ; 
With thee Pll live and die, my love! 
My light, thine eye; my breath, thy sigh; 
Life’s mingled cup I'd quaff with thee, 
My love! my only love! 
For thou art like, the day-star, love ! 
That glads the yernal hour, my love ! 
When stem and, flower, in every bower, 
Diffuse their fragrance far, my love!, 
Original Poetry. 
335 
And, like the dewy morning, love! 
The tear-drops of thine cye, my love! 
The balm supply of sympathy, 
Whence life’s best blossoms spring, my-love! 
Then be thou pensive, be thou gay, 
My answering heart shall love thee, love ! 
Thy tear, thy smile, the star the while)” 
My pulse shall still obey, my love! 
Til weep with thee, 1’ll laugh with thee ; 
With thee I'll live and die, my love!» *' 
Bask in thine eye, and breathe thy sigh,’ 
Till life’s last cup I quaff with thee, ay 
My love! my only love!- 
¥ J.T. 
SONNET 
TO MISS EMMA RICHARDS, A YOUNG LADY OF 
FIFTEEN, ON HEARING HER SING. 
TuereE is an artless rapture in the tones 
Of the sweet bird yet blest with liberty ; 
So singest thou, sweet maid, whose voice 
atones 
For many a heart-fix’d pang of misery. 
The village brook that gurgling winds its 
way, : 
The bee that hums his noontide symphony, 
The Zephyr sporting with the rustling. 
spray, . 
Soothe not the breast like thy young min- 
strelsy. 
Then, O, sing on, fair, young and guileless 
maid, ; 
And joy and innocence keep time with 
thee! 
But should discordant woe thy bower invade, 
O still exert thy soul’s soft: melody, 
And peace shall come from Heay’n; thy. 
soft note winning 
Her ear ‘to Earth, as *tweresome sister Angel 
singing. Exort. 
SONNET 
TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. : 
Giver me the man whose heart is in his hand, 
Whose pulse beats warm with pure sincerity; 
Ri walks a public blessing through the 
and, 
Sustain’d by honour and integrity. 
Give me the man who, scorning the vile 
threat, 
‘Or act of power, still argues fearlessly ;# 
‘He is the healthful breeze, refreshing sweet 
The vitalcurrent of Society. 
Give me the man (the portrait to complete) 
Whose life is with his theme in harmony 
In his own private circle. Ah! Burdett! 
Need I in this small tribute mention thee ? 
Thou who art England’s proudest pillar !— 
Yet, ih se 
‘Even in thy favourite chase} thou picturest 
Liberty. asic” 
Expets oy 
# Alluding to the two imprisonments Sir EF! ‘Beas 
* undergone in asserting his brother subjects" rights:\"! 
t Sir F. Burdett is an enthusiast in huntingy 
It may be doubted whether this allusion is;hap> 
pily chosen. But the poet is, of course,. at liberty 
to'speak his own sentiment.=-Hdsy jig ie ton yal 
Spirit 
