« PreviousContinue »
O! what is love by poets deified,
Compared with friendship in all dangers tried?
A firmer friend than Henry was to me.
Could not this balmy clime restore his health,
Alas! Consumption gives a sickly hue
To wood-crown'd hills, rich vales, and skies of deeepest blue.
Busy Remembrance! why call up in vain
Those happy nights, that ne'er will come again,
FLORENCE, October 2, 1818.
WRITTEN IN OCT. 1826.
WILD flowers, that Fancy o'er our path has strown,
Gone like the light that yesterday hath shone.
Yet forms that are most beautiful remain,
With variegated hues adorn'd below
A mellow autumn's sun the woodlands glow;
Is stirr'd; and how intense the noon-day hush!
Like to a sun-burst gathering clouds among,
He drew towards God, with sweet attractive force,
Though mild to others, to himself severe,
He ne'er relax'd, content that Heaven was near:
His mind, within its tenement of dust,
The pyramid, thus heavenward pointing stands
Habitual piety had given a tone
Of feeling to him that seem'd his alone;