r from thy native cat'racts' awful sound,
Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh,
Thy poor remains repose on alien ground;
Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone,
And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone.

IMPROMPTU,

IN REPLY TO A LADY,

_Who asked the Author what Childhood resembled_.

How like is childhood to the lucid tide
That calmly wanders thro' the mossy dell,
Sweeps o'er the lily by the margin's side,
And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!

LINES

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY IN GERMANY,

_Who, until her Sister, honoured the Author by walking with him in
the Evening_.

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part,
Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart,
Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense;
Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence.
Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone,
And on our steps the moon-beam only shone,
Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace,
And all the sweet expression of thy face;
And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell,
Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well
Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour,
The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r!
So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close,
The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose!

[Footnote A: One of the creeping cereuses, usually known by the name
of the night-flower, is said to be as grand and as beautiful as any in
the vegetable system. It begins to open in the evening, about seven
o'clock; is in perfection about eleven, perfuming the air to a
considerable distance, and fades about four in the morning.]

LINES TO STUDY.

O Study! while thy lovers raise
Thy name with all the pow'r of praise,
Frown not, thou nymph with piercing mind!
If in this bosom thou should'st find
That all thy deep, thy brilliant, lore,
Which charm'd it once, now charms no more:
Frown not, if, on thy classic line,
One strange, uncall'd-for, tear should shine;
Frown not, if, when a smile should start,
A sigh should heave an aching heart:
If Mem'ry, roving far away,
Should an unmeaning homage pay,
Should ask thee for thy golden fruit,
And, when thou deign'st to hear her suit,
Should turn her from the proffer'd food,
To tread the shades of Solitude:
Frown not, if, in the humble line,
Ungrac'd by any thought of thine,
Should but that gentle name appear,
Fond cause of ev'ry joy and fear;
I love, tho' rude, I love it more,
Than all thy piles of letter'd lore:
Fro