Addressed to D. W.

Once more my Friend, my Muse attunes her lyre,

While not respective scenes her tho'ts employ.

Mov'd by the warmth of Friendship's genial fire,

Pure source of all our happiness and joy.

Oft have I seen you in the mary dance,

With easy step and unaffected grace.

Of is the fair one seen you cast a glance,

That bro't uncoscious bluses in her face.

How oft I've seen you with a Classic Friend,

On solemn, pleasing contemplation move;

Or at the Muses altar lowly bend;

Or with them o'er Parnassian meadows move.

Or else around the philosophic board,

Cration view with reverential fear.

And part to head those paths where Newton soar'd,

And point out Woods beyond old Herschel's sphere.

When recollection brings those scenes to view,

Where conversation oft be quit'd the hour.

"Where hand in hand we brushed the morning dw,"

Or talk'd of Friendship in the ev'ning lower.

Fled are those scenes - those pleasures now are o'er.

Those scenes whose youthful pleasures ever Dwell,

No more shall converse steal away the hour.

To all your charms I sigh a long Farewell.