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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures,
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures ;
The air that floated by me seem'd to say,
“ Write ! thou wilt never have a better day.”
And so I did. When many lines I'd written,
Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,
Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I'd better
Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.
Such an attempt required an inspiration
Of a peculiar sort,

,-a consummation ;-
Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been
Verses from which the soul would never wean;
But many days have passed since last my heart
Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart ;
By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;
Or by the song of Erin pierced and sadden'd:
What time you were before the music sitting,
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.
Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes
That freshly terminate in open plains,
And revell’d in a chat that
When, at night-fall, among your books we got:
No, nor when supper came, nor after that,
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;
No, nor till cordially you shook my hand
Mid-way between our homes :—your accents bland
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor.
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ;
You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain.
In those still moments I have wish'd you joys
That well you know to honor :-“ Life's very toys

ased not,

With him," said I, “ will take a pleasant charm;
It cannot be that aught will work him harm.”
These thoughts now come o'er me with all their might:-
Again I shake your hand,-friend Charles, good night.

September, 1816.

STANZAS.

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity :
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look ;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 't were so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy ?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense. to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.

END OF PART II.

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