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Sweetner of life, and solder of society;
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.
Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,
Anxious to please.—Oh! when my friend and I
In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye; and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors thro' the underwood,
Sweet-murmuring: Methought the shrill-tongu'd Thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty Black-bird
Mellow'd his pipe, and softn'd ev'ry note:
The Eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the Rose
Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower
Vy'd with its fellow-plant in luxury
Of dress.—Oh! then, the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'Twas happiness
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed
Not to return, low painful the remembrance!

Dull Grave.—thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood,
Strik'st out the dimple from the check of Mirth,
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now? the men of health,
Complexionally pleasant? Where the Droll,
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting cronds,
And made even thick-lip'd musing melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile
Before she was aware! Ah! sullen now,
And dumb, as the green turf chat covers them.