To George Felton Mathew

    Yet hartned to his pipe） with all the skill

    His few yeeres could， began to fill his quill¹."

    -Britannia's Pastorals.-Browne.

    Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong，

    And doubly sweet a brotherhood² in song；

    Nor can remembrance， Mathew！ bring to view

    A fate more pleasing， a delight more true

    Than that in which the brother poets joy'd，

    Who， with combined powers， their wit employed

    To raise a trophy³ to the drama's muses⁵.

    The thought of this great partnership⁶ diffuses⁷

    Over the genius-loving heart， a feeling

    Of all that's high， and great， and good， and healing.

    Too partial friend！ fain would I follow thee

    Past each horizon of fine poesy；

    Fain would I echo back each pleasant note，

    As o'er Sicilian seas clear anthems⁸ float

    'Mong the light skimming gondolas⁹ far parted，

    Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted¹⁰：

    But 'tis impossible； far different cares

    Beckon¹¹ me sternly from soft "Lydian airs，"

    And hold my faculties¹² so long in thrall¹³，

    That I am oft in doubt whether at all

    I shall again see Ph？bus in the morning：

    Or flush'd Aurora¹⁴ in the roseate dawning！

    Or a white Naiad in a rippling¹⁵ stream；

    Or a rapt seraph¹⁶ in a moonlight beam；

    Or again witness what with thee I've seen，

    The dew by fairy feet swept from the green，

    After a night of some quaint¹⁷ jubilee¹⁸

    Which every elf and fay had come to see：

    When bright processions took their airy march

    Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.

    But might I now each passing moment give

    To the coy muse⁴， with me she would not live

    In this dark city， nor would condescend¹⁹

    'Mid²⁰ contradictions her delights to lend.

    Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind，

    Ah！ surely it must be whene'er I find

    Some flowery spot， sequester'd， wild， romantic，

    That often must have seen a poet frantic²¹；

    Where oaks， that erst the Druid knew， are growing，

    And flowers， the glory of one day， are blowing；

    Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping²² clusters

    Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres，

    And intertwined the cassia's arms unite，

    With its own drooping buds， but very white.

    Where on one side are covert²³ branches hung，

    'Mong which the nightingales have always sung

    In leafy quiet； where to pry²⁴， aloof²⁵

    Atween the pillars of the sylvan²⁶ roof，

    Would be to find where violet beds were nestling，

    And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.

    There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy，

    To say， "Joy not too much in all that's bloomy."

    Yet that is vain-O Mathew！ lend thy aid

    To find a place where I may greet the maid-

    Where we may soft humanity put on，

    And sit， and rhyme， and think on Chatterton；

    And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him

    Four laurell'd spirits， heavenward to entreat²⁷ him.

    With reverence²⁸ would we speak of all the sages²⁹

    Who have left streaks³⁰ of light athwart their ages：

    And thou shouldst moralise on Milton's blindness，

    And mourn the fearful dearth³¹ of human kindness

    To those who strove with the bright golden wing

    Of genius， to flap away each sting

    Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell

    Of those who in the cause of freedom fell；

    Of our own Alfred， of Helvetian Tell；

    Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace³²，

    High-minded and unbending William Wallace.

    While to the rugged³³ north our musing³⁴ turns，

    We well might drop a tear for him and Burns.

    Felton！ without incitements such as these，

    How vain for me the niggard muse to tease！

    For thee， she will thy every dwelling³⁵ grace，

    And make "a sunshine in a shady place"：

    For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming wild，

    Close to the source， bright， pure， and undefiled，

    Whence gush³⁶ the streams of song： in happy hour

    Came chaste³⁷ Diana from her shady bower³⁸，

    Just as the sun was from the east uprising；

    And， as for him some gift she was devising，

    Beheld³⁹ thee， pluck'd thee， cast thee in the stream

    To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.

    I marvel⁴⁰ much that thou hast never told

    How， from a flower， into a fish of gold

    Apollo changed thee： how thou next didst seem

    A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream；

    And when thou first didst in that mirror trace

    The placid⁴¹ features of a human face；

    That thou hast never told thy travels strange，

    And all the wonders of the mazy range

    O'er pebbly⁴² crystal， and o'er golden sands；

    Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly hands.