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Shakespeare alone with him could try,
Undazzled and untir'd, the sky.
And thou didst view his blooming charm*

That eagle plumed like the dove,
Whose very sleeping grace could warm

Th? Italian maiden's heart to love.
Thou saw'st him in his happier hour,
When life was love, and genius, power;
When at his touch th' awaken'd string
All joyous hail'd the laughing spring ;
And, like the sun, his radiant eyes
Glanc'd on thy earthly Paradise.
Thou didst not see those eyes so bright,
For ever quench?d in cheerless night;, :
Thou didst not hear his anguish'd lays
Of “ evil tongues and evil days."
Thou saw'st but his gay youth, sweet spot!
Happiest for what thou sawest not!
And happy still !-Though in thy sod
No blade remain by Milton trod;
Though the sweet gale, that sweeps thy plain,
No touch of Milton's breath retain;
Yet here the bards of later days
Shall roam to view thee and to praise.
Here Jones, ere yet his voice was fame,
A lone romantic votary came;

* There is somewhere extant a wild romantic story of an Italian lady of high birth, who, in travelling through England, saw Milton, then very young, asleep upon a bank. Enamoured of his beauty, she wrote some verses expressive of her admiration, laid them upon his hand, and left him still sleeping. This incident is said to have occasioned his travels in Italy, where he hoped to meet his unknown fair-one; and to have been the first cause of his assiduous cultivation of Italian literature.

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He too is gone, untimely gone!
But, lur’d by him, full many a one
Shall tread thy hill on pilgrimage ;
And Minstrel, Patriot, or Sage,
Who wept not o'er his Indian bier,
Shall mourn him with his Milton here.
For till our English tongue be dead,
From Freedom's breast till life be fled,
Till Poetry's quick pulse be still,
None shall forsake thee, Forest Hill.


Few are the scenes of power to chain

The rapt enthusiast's mind, Like that where Milton's wondrous strain Still seems to linger o'er the plain,

Or whisper in the wind:
Not pent within the crowded town
Where meanness sweeps away renown:
But fresh and innocent and fair,
As if the mighty master there
Still flung his witch-notes on the air!
Yet Taste and Fancy's visions gay

Life's fond Affections shun,
And fade at Feeling's light away,

Like stars before the sun.
The spirits of the honour'd dead
At Friendship's living touch are fled :
For here, beneath fair Sherburn's shade*,
My Zosia dwelt, my Polish maid !

* Sherburn Lodge, the seat of the late Countess Dowager of Macclesfield, under whose care Zosia Choynowska, the early and beloved friend of the Author, was placed for education.

My friend most tender and most true!
My friend, ere friendship's name we knew!
The partner of those blissful hours,
When the world seem'd one bank of flowers;
Life but a summer's cloudless morn;
And Love, a rose without a thorn.
Fleeting as that illusive day,
Was Friendship's joy, was Zosia’s stay:
For when o’er her majestic form
Youth shed his mantling roses warm,
When Beauty saw her work matur'd,
And Grandeur aw'd whom Grace allur'd,
Th'imperious mandate harshly bore
The finish'd chariner from our shore;
Bore her from friendship, bliss, and love,
Envy, neglect, contempt to prove
From hearts who, frozen as their clime,
Would antedate the work of Time,
And nip her beauties in their prime.
O ever-lov'd! return again!
Return! and soon the blooming train
Of childish friends shall meet to share
Thy soft caress, my Polish fair!
Again shall view thy sparkling eye
And Empress-form admiringly;
Each emulously crowding round,
Each listning for one silver sound;
And thou to all, with Queen-like smile,
Wilt sweet attention show the while,
Of kindness full and courtesy ;
Though one alone (О happiest she !)
Scarce from thy tongue shall greeting hear,
Or find thy love, but in thy tear.
The dews of Heav'n fall not so sweet
As Friendship's tears with joy replete!

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Haste on my breast such dews to rain!
My ever-lov’d, return again!


The pause has check'd my spirit glad;
Deep, doubting hope is ever sad;
But sadder thoughts now intervene
To cloud that sweet and tranquil scene.
Direr than absence is the foe,
Who waits to give the fatal blow:
Weeping within that mansion fair
Sits Filial Love-Death hovers there.
He comes not now to lead the bloom
Of youth to an undreaded tomb;
He comes not now to tame the pride
Of matron health confirm'd and tried ;
Not tow'ring man provokes his rage ;
'Tis woman,

feebleness, and age.
And yet, nor beauty early cropp’d,
Nor manhood's strength untimely dropp'd,
Could waken more regretful sighs,
Or more with sorrow blend surprise.
For she, his noble prey, had stood
Like an old oak in Sherburn wood,
In varied verdure richly deck'd,
Whose ample branches wav'd uncheck’d;
And though dead boughs commingling grew,
Abrupt and bare, of darker hue;
Though weeds minute and yellow moss,
With varied tints, the bark emboss ;
Yet lovely was its pleasant shade,
Lovely the trunk with moss inlaid,
Lovely the long-hair'd lichens grey,
Lovely its pride and its decay.

Such, Macclesfield, thou wert! Old Time
Himself had spar'd thy beamy prime
Uninjur'd, as on Grecia's strand
He views the works of Phidias' hand;
Boast of the world! whose heav'nly forms
Can chain the winds, arrest the storms,
And bid the sun, the dews, the air,
Perfection's noblest image spare.
So Time had past o'er thee, bright dame;
All chang'd; but thou wert still the same.
Still skill'd to give the fading flower
More brilliant life by Painting's power;
Still skill the nimble steel to ply
With quick inventful industry ;
Still skill'd to frame the moral rhyme,
Or point with Gospel truths the lay sublime;
But rarer yet, ’mid age's frost
The fire of youth thou hadst not lost;
Still at another's bliss could'st glow;
Still melt to hear another's woe;
Still give


man's cares relief;
Still bend to soothe the mourner's grief.
Though near a century's course had sped,
And bleach'd thy venerable head,
By age's vice and woe untold
Thy years remain'd-Thou wert not old!
And so to live and so to die,
Is endless rare felicity.
But there is one*, whose ready tear
Bedews thy pale cheek on thy bier;
One, whom my heart, my tongue, my lays,
Dare to admire, but not to praise.

* The Right Hon. Lady Mary Parker.

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