University of Virginia Library

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LINES WRITTEN TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD'S FAMILY, ON THE EVE OF THEIR DEPARTURE FROM IPSWICH.

My Friends farewell, to foreign climes ye roam,
And seek in Brussels, the delights of home.
Ye haste from Suffolk, down the Orwell's tide;
In stranger bark; with stranger sail ye glide.
O'er river dear, too dear to poet's mind,
Ye sail to-morrow. Ere ye leave behind,
The poet's shore, the poet's house and home,
Accept his wishes as they chance to come.

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Orwell, thou tide, beloved, admired, and known,
Thou sweetest river, which I call mine own,
Bear up the bark, that bears my friends away,
And take them safely, since they will not stay.
Ye breezes blowing o'er the hills around,
Send forth your murmurs; let the rushing sound,
Declare your readiness, and if ye please,
Concentrate all of you in one fair breeze.
Hills, woods, and cliffs, ye tests of nature's spell,
Speak in sweet smiles the honest truth farewell.

Farewell my friends, in sorrow's darkest hour,
Mine has been duty, to assuage the power
Of mortal agony, to calm the soul,—
And teach the spirit to assume controul,
O'er nature's weakness. Can that day of woe,
Once past, forgotten be? or meant to show,
A proof of weakness. No, ye must be strong,
Retain your strength, as globule borne along,

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From mountain's height, rolls sweeping to the plain,
Snow gathering snow; increasing but to gain
Still further increase; gather as ye go,
The Spirit's peace; the comforter in woe.