University of Virginia Library

And what to you, dear blithsome boy,
Compos'd of ease and health and joy,
Fair round and sound, as hawkers cry
Their early cherries,—“Buy, come buy?”
What shall the Muse to you address
That may the Poet's love express?
For sure they both, as fondly true,
My playful George, appreciate you.

What tho' too young for War's alarms,
For Learning's or for Glory's charms;
A dearer debt to you I owe
Than Camp or College can bestow.

O when dark storms, on Winter's wing,
Forbade the cheerless Bard to sing;
When scarcely strung the chilling lyre,
Ere the verse froze upon the wire;
When Fancy's stream refus'd to flow,
And the dull thought congeal'd to snow;
When, sharper than the cutting wind,
A winter gather'd o'er the mind;
When mental vapours, storm and cloud,
Life's changeful atmosphere enshroud,
And, folded in Misfortune's gloom,
Silent I woo'd th'oblivious tomb:—
Or, still more dire, when pangs obtrude,
From cherish'd friend's ingratitude:
The eye that us'd with grief to flow,
The cheek that us'd with joy to glow,
Ic'd to their source; the faithless heart, . . . .
When these the hydra sting impart,
The air of that good-humoured face,
The artless jest, the mazy race,
The gleeful leap, the frolic bound,
As gay we took the garden's round;
Escaping now, now archly caught,
Beguiling thus a moment's thought—
And what for this to you I owe,
Ah! never, never mayst thou know!

And yet, dear George, immense the gain
Of one short moment stol'n from pain!
Stol'n from the gloom that wraps the mind
When trusted Friend has prov'd unkind;
More welcome than the dawning day
To the heath-wanderer on his way;
More precious than celestial light
To eyes but just restor'd to sight:
O 'tis the hope-beam, heavenly fair,
To cheer the darkness of despair.

And what, gay laughter-loving boy,
Your rising talents shall employ,
When you shall reach maturer time,
And claim my heart-felt wish in rhime?
Believe me, George, the happy now
Is smoother than your polished brow;
The minutes and the months more sleek
Than the young down upon your cheek;
And, save that here and there a page
Of Roman Bard or Grecian Sage
Puzzles your wit, and mars the fun
Which makes you wish the task were done,
The present are the days of glee,
And your whole life a jubilee;
And, trust me, never shalt thou share
A time, dear Youth, more void of care.

What then is left to Friendship's Muse,
But that, whatever path you choose,
Whether in Trade's tumultuous road
You toil to gain a golden load,
Or in soft solitudes you stray
Where Nature strews with flowers the way;
Whether devoted to the crowd,
Or cottager, where blossoms shroud;
Or merchant, who, to fill the sails
And waft his freight, invokes the gales;
Or holy man, on some fair green
Where you may lead a life serene
In rectory snug, your patron near,
Amidst good neighbours and good cheer,
Where fat and fair, my buxom lad,
You may be happy as your pad;
And both together take the air
As easy as your elbow chair;
And if you wive, may she, like you,
Be fat and fair, and buxom too!
Or if to sea your Fates should bend,
May day and night, as now, befriend!
May Thetis' self her god implore
To waft your vessel to the shore,
And gently rock you on the deep
In coral cradle as you sleep!—
In short, dear Youth, whate'er the plan
The Fates ordain for you as man,
May all the bliss you now enjoy,
With all the pains you feel as boy,
Permit you still to sport and caper,
In spite of cloud, and storm, and vapour,
Till you another George shall find
As blithe, good-humoured, and as kind,
Your frolic playfellow to be,
And give the pastime you give me!
Then son and sire like us shall race
O'er hill and dale to hiding-place.
Grant this till fourscore years are o'er,—
Affection's Muse can ask no more.