DEATH.

Vain breath of a moment, and falsely called Life! When beneath my cold touch thou shalt crumble to

dust,

A better existence shall spring from the strife,

And Death prove the portal of Life to the just!

TO A FRIEND CONVICTED OF FLATTERY.

DID you e'er gaze through glasses whose magical tint
Reflects their own hue on each object around,
With the soft dyes of summer the landscape imprint
Or with winter's chill horrors surround?

Through the green, whose gay tinge gives a glow and a charm

Yet more bright, to the youth of the year,

Or the gold, thro' whose medium tho' mellow and warm, In the autumn of age they appear?

Through the red, whose rich hue gives a lustre unknown To the brightest of seasons below,

And breathes of a glory belonging alone

To worlds unacquainted with woe?

It is thus through the eyes of our feelings we see,
Through these our impressions receive;

It is not the objects themselves—it is we
Who bestow the same tints we perceive.

'Tis Sorrow that sheds the hoar-frost of the soul
O'er scenes bright with summer before,

And turns to the ice-wreaths that circle the pole
The chaplet of flowers which she wore.

'Tis Love and 'tis Joy give the roseate hue;
So unlike aught that here has its birth,
We feel 'tis a vanishing vision we view,
A glory that is not of earth.

"Tis Friendship that casts the soft green of the heart O'er each barren waste it beholds

Delights from its own boundless stores to impart,
In its own veil of verdure enfolds.

And through this, my dear girl, do you gaze upon me,
It is this your affection secures,

And I blush when I feel that far different must be
The opinion of others from yours.

152 TO A FRIEND CONVICTED OF FLATTERY.

Yet say,

should I seek to remove the soft veil?

Ah no! let it cling to me still,

For the picture is fair, though the likeness may fail, And the theme be unworthy your skill.

My own native colours, all dull though they be,

Let others impartially view,

But may genius and worth like my friend's ever see, Through a medium too bright to be true.

Yes, such is my wish! tho' a vain one, I own,
Why shrink, what I feel, to confess?

Since the praise of the good and the gifted alone
Is that which I seek to possess.

And the more when I feel that yet one fading hue,
Dearest Kate, is reserved for us both,

Through which, when with faint lips we utter adieu,
We must gaze, though reluctant and loth.

For like Autumn's last tints to the desolate heart
Is the depth of that tender regret,

Felt by friends like ourselves, who, when destined to part,
Almost grieve that they ever have met.

Yet to feel that the friend you will bear in your mind
So much brighter and better will be,

Than the real and dull one you now leave behind
Will soften your absence to me.

And long in the warmth and the kindness of youth, May you cherish the pleasing mistake,

Turn your eyes from the dulness and tameness of truth, Nor suffer th' enchantment to break.