TO ROBERT SOUTHEY by MARIA GOWEN BROOKS

OH! laurel'd bard, how can I part,
Those cheering smiles no more to see,
Until my soothed and solaced heart
Pours forth one grateful lay to thee?

Fair virtue tuned thy youthful breath,
And peace and pleasure bless thee now;
For love and beauty guard the wreath
That blooms upon thy manly brow.

The Indian, leaning on his bow,
On hostile cliff, in desert drear,
Cast with less joy his glance below,
When came some friendly warrior near;

The native dove of that warm isle
Where oft, with flowers, my lyre was drest,
Sees with less joy the sun awhile
When vertic rains have drench'd her nest,

Than I, a stranger, first beheld
Thine eye's harmonious welcome given
With gentle word, which, as it swell'd,
Came to my heart benign as heaven.

Soft be thy sleep, as mists that rest
On Skiddaw's top at summer morn;
Smooth be thy days as Derwent's breast,
When summer light is almost gone!

And yet, for thee, why breathe a prayer?
I deem thy fate is given in trust
To seraphs, who by daily care,
Would prove that heaven is not unjust.

And treasured shall thine image be
In memory's purest, holiest shrine,
While truth and honour glow in thee,
Or life's warm quivering pulse is mine.

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