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Yes, Friend, the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.
What, tho' Imagination's ray
Yet shines on life's autumnal day,
And time allows me to prolong,
As Thought invites, my evening song:
What tho' my verse-enamour'd heart
To Poetry's enchanting art
Still fondly thrills; and with a smile
His garland Friendship weaves the while,
Affection's laurels to bestow,
And twine them round the fading brow,
Which, ere another lustrum fly,
Shall show the Wrinkles as they lie

Insidious in their furrows dark,
And deeply stamp the envious Mark—
The Mark indelible,—which Fate
Indents to note our mortal date—
Of these the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.

Fancy, thy lov'd and frolic play,
And magic touch and welcome sway,
And all thy pleasures must be o'er,
Nor charm thy drooping votary more.
And thou long-cherish'd, gentle Muse,
Thy smile withdrawing, shalt refuse,
When wanted most, thy soothing aid,
And leave me in the desert shade,
Deny one kind inspiring strain,
In days of weakness and of pain.
Ev'n like some Bird, whom Tyrant Fate
Has plunder'd of his faithful mate;
Left him where late embower'd he sung,
While thro' the Woods his love-notes rung:
Of this the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.

And ah! a Lot more dire behind
Awaits debility of Mind.
Alas! when ev'ry Muse is fled,
How wretched He who writes for bread!
Who, when the joyous years are flown,
And Reason totters on her throne,
And Fancy fails, and Nature tires,
And Fame herself no more inspires,

And ev'n the sweet return of Spring
No more can make the Poet sing,
Tho' each Musician of the Fields,
Soft to the tuneful Season yields
The glossy plume, the warbling throat,
To Passion's and to Rapture's note,
And ev'ry shrub and ev'ry tree
Resounds with Nature's minstrelsy!
How wretched He who strives to shun
The clamour of the frowning Dun,
Or to keep Famine from the door—
That fiercest Wolf that haunts the poor!
How dire, that He, who many a year
Had rais'd the smile or caus'd the tear
Of wholesome Mirth and tender Grief,
Should want himself the Poor's relief!—
Condemn'd to eat the beggar's meal
In pangs that beggars ne'er can feel;
Or, when deserted by the Nine,
Forc'd to elaborate the line,
To labour more, yet less to please,
In the Mind's anguish or disease—
Of these the Warning Voice I hear,
And know it comes from lips sincere.

Ere thy lov'd Bard, dear Friend, is thrown
Upon the Poet's frozen zone—
Where ev'ry flower shall cease to blow,
And ev'ry stream forget to flow,—
To gild with a sun-setting light
The cheerless hours of mental night,
To fix the Gleaner is your care
In tranquil-Age's elbow chair;

To guard him from those days of grief,
And make his last a Golden Sheaf.—
Yes, well I know, ere Time advance,
And urge grim Death to lift his lance,
When Age on Memory is cast
To catch an Image of the past;
To give me then all life can give,
With wise and mild content to live;
The decencies of age secure,
And smooth what age must still endure:
It is for this the Voice I hear,
The Warning of a Friend sincere.—

Ah think, you cry, how sweet to sit
Sequester'd in some calm retreat,
When all your blossom'd years are flown,
In wicker chair, in cot your own!
How sweet, in Nature's icy hour
To think upon the glowing power,
On Summer scenes long past to muse
In memory's retrospective views;
In fond soliloquy to dwell,
And to yourself youth's story tell,
The school adventure, stripling feat,
The truant prank, and sportive cheat,
Or descant on that prouder time
When first the Muse inspir'd a rhime,
When She you prais'd did first impart
That grove of Laurel to your Heart—
The Smile of Love—to thought still dear,
And sweeter music to the ear
Than all that Fame has since bestow'd,
Ev'n when her wreath with roses glow'd.

And think how sweet, by Memory's light,
To give the mind a second sight,
Life's halcyon moments to renew;
And seem to have them still in view!
Now skimming o'er the level ground;
Now breathing up the steep profound;
Now basking in the sunny gale;
Now rushing to the bowery vale;
Now seeking more umbrageous groves,
Which Contemplation ever loves;
Eye the soft moon-beams from the shade,
While dew-drops tremble on the glade!
O think how sweet, ere life decline,
To make these balmy blessings thine!

But recollected scenes, like those
From whence in real life they rose,
At length progressively decay,
And Life's last day-dream melts away.
Oh, ere that awful hour shall come,
If such an hour must be thy doom,
When not a gleam is left behind,
Darkness of body and of mind,
When man can neither sow nor reap,
Mayst thou secure thy little heap,
That in thy double night shall give,
Till Heaven's good time, the wish to live;
The Harvest-home, thy blest supply,
Till Heav'n approves the wish to die.

Mavor, all this I seem to hear,
The Warning of a Friend sincere.

Rous'd at the thought, at length my soul
Shall own, Self-love, thy strong controul;
Henceforth I worship at thy shrine,
The Gleaner's Harvest shall be mine.
You tell me, Friend, the fund is nigh
Which may the Gleaner's Cottage buy;
Which, ere the joyless time shall come,
May give the comforts of a home.

Congenial to a Poet's cot,
Each Muse-lov'd shrub must grace the spot;
A purling stream, a shady bower,
And many a fair Parnassian flower:
A rose,—What Bard's without his rose?
In ev'ry song it buds or blows;—
A rose of moss its sweets must yield,
Perfuming garden, house, and field:
The primrose too must grace the scene,
The violet blue, and ivy green;
And ev'ry other bloom be there
That's hallow'd by the Muse's care.
But if this golden aim succeeds,
May each kind wish to which it leads
Be crown'd with Plenty's best reward,
The richest harvest of the Bard!

Oh, when the independent cot
And social hearth shall be my lot,
May those who chang'd, with generous power,
The fancied to the real flower;
Who help'd so well to store my purse,
And realize the scenes of Verse;

When visionary meadows yield
To Alma Mater's actual field,
And bonâ fide cottage fare
Succeeds to palaces in air;
And Fairy-land, where Poets range,
To solid Terra Firma change;
May those who help'd to build my cot,
And beautify and bless the spot,
Be at my little mansion found,
The Patrons of the smiling ground!
Without endearing Friendship's power,
Unlov'd the cot, unblest the bower:
Unless a Friend partake the fire,
What comfort can the blaze inspire?
Unless a Friend partake the board,
What pleasure can the feast afford?
Then may each friend of soul sincere
The Gleaner's happy Cot endear!

And, Mavor, thou, a frequent guest,
Mayst thou, in turn, like me, be press'd;
A sunny chamber shine on me,
A shady parlour smile on thee!
And, whether roof'd with tile or thatch,
O mayst thou often pluck the latch!
Friendship's a God! A key is thine;
A master-key—by right divine.

[_]

[Although the following Lines have appeared; yet, as they are alluded to in the Address which immediately succeeds, they are here reprinted.]

A few copies of this Poem have been distributed among the Author's friends, many of whom contributed towards accomplishing the object described.

The reader will observe, in course of the present Volume, that this change is likely to take place.