O for the strength to paint my joy once more! That joy I feel when Winter's reign is o'er; When the dark despot lifts his hoary brow, And seeks his polar-realm's eternal snow.
Though black November's fogs oppress my brain, Shake every nerve, and struggling fancy chain; Though time creeps o'er me with his palsied hand, And frost-like bids the stream of passion stand,
And through his dry teeth sends a shivering blast, And points to more than fifty winters past, Why should I droop with heartless, aimless eye? Friends start around, and all my phantoms fly,
And Hope, upsoaring with expanded wing, Unfolds a scroll, inscribed “Remember Spring.” Stay, sweet enchantress, charmer of my days, And glance thy rainbow colours o'er my lays;
Be to poor Giles what thou hast ever been, His heart's warm solace and his sovereign queen; Dance with his rustics when the laugh runs high, Live in the lover's heart, the maiden's eye;
Still be propitious when his feet shall stray Beneath the bursting hawthorn-buds of May; Warm every thought, and brighten every hour, And let him feel thy presence and thy power.
SIR AMBROSE HIGHAM, in his eightieth year, With memory unimpair'd, and conscience clear, His English heart untrammell'd, and full blown His senatorial honours and renown,
Now, basking in his plenitude of fame, Resolved, in concert with his noble dame, To drive to town no more — no more by night To meet in crowded courts a blaze of light,
In streets a roaring mob with flags unfurl'd, And all the senseless discord of the world,— But calmly wait the hour of his decay, The broad bright sunset of his glorious day;
And where he first drew breath at last to fall, Beneath the towering shades of Oakly Hall .
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