If from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be-- My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined Too highly, and with a partial eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend An ear to the desponding lovesick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changèd friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.
John, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy-- Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seem'd so great-- And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state. O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim glass even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Fantasy, And her rude visions give severe delight. O wingèd bark! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood, Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,-- To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, Or take my portion with the winds that rave.