Letter from Henry Fuller
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.
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