We both have run o'er half the space Listed for mortal's earthly race; We both have crost life's fervid line, And other stars before us shine: May they be bright and prosperous As those that have been stars for us! Our course by Milton's light was sped, And Shakespeare shining overhead: Chatting on deck was Dryden too, The Bacon of the rhyming crew; None ever crost our mystic sea More richly stored with thought than he; Tho' never tender nor sublime, He wrestles with and conquers Time. To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee, I left much prouder company; Thee gentle Spenser fondly led, But me he mostly sent to bed. I wish them every joy above That highly blessed spirits prove, Save one: and that too shall be theirs, But after many rolling years, When 'mid their light thy light appears. XIX TO CHARLES DICKENS Go then to Italy; but mind To leave the pale low France behind; Pass through that country, nor ascend The Rhine, nor over Tyrol wend: Thus all at once shall rise more grand The glories of the ancient land. Dickens! how often, when the air Breath'd genially, I've thought me there, And rais'd to heaven my thankful eyes To see three spans of deep blue skies. In Genoa now I hear a stir, A shout ... _Here comes the Minister!_ Yes, thou art he, although not sent By cabinet or parliament: Yes, thou art he. Since Milton's youth Bloom'd in the Eden of the South, Spirit so pure and lofty none Hath heavenly Genius from his throne Deputed on the banks of Thames To speak his voice and urge his claims. Let every nation know from thee How less than lovely Italy Is the whole world beside; let all Into their grateful breasts recall How Prospero and Miranda dwelt In Italy: the griefs that melt The stoniest heart, each sacred tear One lacrymatory gathered here; All Desdemona's, all that fell In playful Juliet's bridal cell. Ah! could my steps in life's decline Accompany or follow thine! But my own vines are not for me To prune, or from afar to see. I miss the tales I used to tell With cordial Hare and joyous Gell, And that good old Archbishop whose Cool library, at evening's close (Soon as from Ischia swept the gale And heav'd and left the dark'ning sail), Its lofty portal open'd wide To me, and very few beside: Yet large his kindness. Still the poor Flock round Taranto's palace door, And find no other to replace The noblest of a noble race. Amid our converse you would see Each with white cat upon his knee, And flattering that grand company: For Persian kings might proudly own Such glorious cats to share the throne.