60 HENRY KirjvE white's poems. 



Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictured. 



In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent 



I erewhile wander'd with my early friends 



In social intercourse. And then I'd think 



How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, 



One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe ; 



They were set down with sober steadiness, 



Each to his occupation. I alone, 



A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, 



Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering 



With ev'ry wind to ev"ry point o' th' compass. 



Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge 



In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 



The busy bustling crowds could meditate. 



And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away 



Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 



Aye, Contemplation, ev'n in earliest youth 



I woo'd thy heav'nly influence ! I would walk 



A weary way when all my toils were done, 



To lay myself at night in some lone wood, 



And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. 



Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 



To memory doubly dear : for growing years 



Had not then taught me man was made to mourn 



And a short hour of solitary pleasure, 



Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense 



For all the hateful bustles of the day. 



]My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic, 



And soon the marks of care were worn away, 



While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, 



Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 



But it has now assum'd its character ; 



Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, 



Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. 



Yet still, oh, Contemplation ! I do love 



To indulge thy solemn musinis ; still the same 



With thee alone I know to melt and weep, 



In thee alone delighting. Why along 



The dusky track of commerce should I toil, 



When with an easy competence content, 



