Yes! I once bore that title, and my heart Thought nobler of itself, that one so good, So honor'd, so rever'd, should give it me. O _Isola!_ when that glad season comes, Which brought redemption to a ruin'd world, And, like thee, hides beneath the snow of age, A gay, benevolent, and feeling heart, I hop'd again to hear thy tongue repeat, With youthful warmth and zealous energy, Those passages, where Poetry assumes An air divine, and wakes th' attentive soul To holy rapture! Then you promis'd me The luxury to weep o'er Dante's muse, And fair Italia's loftier poets hail. I have often heard That years would blunt the feelings of the soul, And apathy ice the once-glowing heart. Injurious prejudice! Dear, guileless friend! Thou read'st mankind, but saw not, or forgot Their faults and vices; for thy breast was still The residence of sweet Simplicity, Daughter of letter'd Wisdom, and the friend Of Love and Pity. Happy soul, farewell! Long shall we mourn thee! longer will it be, "Ere we shall look upon thy like again!" * * * * * This humble tribute to the memory of my venerated friend, was written in the first impulse of my sorrow for his loss, and though unworthy of his virtues, is still a small memorial of my respect for a man, on whose tomb might justly be inscribed, as I have seen on an old monument: "Heven hath his soule. He fruits of Pietie, This Towne his want. Our hearts his Memorie." TO THE NUNS OF BODNEY. Ye holy women, say! will ye accept The passing tribute of a humble friend? Stranger indeed to you and to your faith, But O! I hope not stranger to the zeal, Which warm'd your bosoms in Religion's cause. When impious men commanded you to break The vow which bound your souls, and which in youth Warm Piety's emphatic lips had made. Say! will ye suffer me on that rude tomb, Where she reposes (whose benignant smile, Whose animated, life-inspiring eye, And faded form, majestic, still appears In Thought's delusive hour) to shed a tear? On her, whose sainted look, though seen but once, I never can forget, till Time shall wrap The veil of Death around me, and make dumb The voice of Memory. Ah! "how low she lies!" No marble monument to speak her praise, And tell the world that here a DILLON rests. One, who in beauty's prime forsook the world, And, _self-bereav'd_ of all it holds most dear, Retir'd, to pass the pilgrimage of life, In solemn prayer and peaceful solitude. Ah, vain desire! Ambition's scowling eye Must see the cloister, as the palace, low, And meek-ey'd Quiet quit her last abode, Ere he can pause to look upon the wreck, And rue the wild impatience of his hand.