To George Felton Mathew

    Yet hartned to his pipe） with all the skill

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

    -Britannia's Pastorals.-Browne.

    Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong，

    And doubly sweet a brotherhood 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 trophy to the drama's muses.

    The thought of this great partnership diffuses

    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 anthems float

    'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted，

    Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted：

    But 'tis impossible； far different cares

    Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian airs，"

    And hold my faculties so long in thrall，

    That I am oft in doubt whether at all

    I shall again see Ph？bus in the morning：

    Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning！

    Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream；

    Or a rapt seraph 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 quaint jubilee

    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 muse， with me she would not live

    In this dark city， nor would condescend

    'Mid 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 frantic；

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

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

    Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping 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 covert branches hung，

    'Mong which the nightingales have always sung

    In leafy quiet； where to pry， aloof

    Atween the pillars of the sylvan 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 entreat him.

    With reverence would we speak of all the sages

    Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages：

    And thou shouldst moralise on Milton's blindness，

    And mourn the fearful dearth 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 solace，

    High-minded and unbending William Wallace.

    While to the rugged north our musing 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 dwelling 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 gush the streams of song： in happy hour

    Came chaste Diana from her shady bower，

    Just as the sun was from the east uprising；

    And， as for him some gift she was devising，

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

    To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.

    I marvel 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 placid features of a human face；

    That thou hast never told thy travels strange，

    And all the wonders of the mazy range

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

    Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly hands.