Poetics Or, a series of poems, and disquisitions on poetry. By George Dyer |
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| XIII. | ODE XIII.
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| XIV. |
 | Poetics |  |
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ODE XIII.
[Yes! many a year circling has fled]
Yes! many a year circling has fled;
—Hours, and days, months, years, how quickly are past!
And man, frail man, lies feverish down at last,
And earth becomes his latest bed.—
Yes! many a year has sped away,
Since, friend, thine hospitable dome,
—Lightly as pass'd the social day,—
Was made thy fickle minstrel's peaceful home.
—Hours, and days, months, years, how quickly are past!
And man, frail man, lies feverish down at last,
And earth becomes his latest bed.—
Yes! many a year has sped away,
Since, friend, thine hospitable dome,
—Lightly as pass'd the social day,—
Was made thy fickle minstrel's peaceful home.
Time has swift wings—but Memory lives;
As the fair moon succeeds the golden sun,
Silvering with borrow'd light the mountain dun,
And thro' the night meek lustre sheds.
So memory by the reflex light
Of gentle deeds, that friendship rears,
Keeps the fair prospect long in sight,
Tho' veil'd behind the tints of mellowing years.
As the fair moon succeeds the golden sun,
Silvering with borrow'd light the mountain dun,
And thro' the night meek lustre sheds.
So memory by the reflex light
Of gentle deeds, that friendship rears,
Keeps the fair prospect long in sight,
Tho' veil'd behind the tints of mellowing years.
She now recalls thy partner's name,
In worth as spotless, as of wisdom rare,
Whose friendship soften'd many a secret care,
And rais'd to health my sickly frame.
Thy little ones still laughing round,
I seem to share the playful day,
Lightly now trip the fairy ground,
Now for Dione crop the flowery May.
In worth as spotless, as of wisdom rare,
Whose friendship soften'd many a secret care,
And rais'd to health my sickly frame.
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I seem to share the playful day,
Lightly now trip the fairy ground,
Now for Dione crop the flowery May.
Yet I, nor Bergholt-park nor grove,
Yet I, nor on the banks of gentle Stour,
May wander more,—nor wait the lingering hour,
With Dedham's frolic tribes to rove.
My friend, as up life's steep we go,
Be ours to gaze th'horizon round;
And, if the present ills abound,
To muse on bliss we left too far below.
Yet I, nor on the banks of gentle Stour,
May wander more,—nor wait the lingering hour,
With Dedham's frolic tribes to rove.
My friend, as up life's steep we go,
Be ours to gaze th'horizon round;
And, if the present ills abound,
To muse on bliss we left too far below.
| Poetics | |