But still we yield thee to no stranger's care; No unknown foe our tender love bereaves; Thou goest the angels' hallow'd bliss to share, A Father thy exalted soul receives! * * * * * TO MISS ROUSE BOUGHTON, NOW THE RIGHT HON. LADY ST. JOHN. Aberystwith, July 5th, 17-- Louisa, while thy pliant fingers trace The solemn beauties of the prospect round, Or, on thy instrument, with touching grace, Awaken all the witcheries of sound: Mild, as thy manners, do the colours rise, As soft and unobtrusive meet the view; And, when the varied notes the ear surprize, We own the harmony as strictly true. Be thine the praise, alas! a gift how rare! Artless, and unpretending, to excel! Forget the envied charm of being fair, To learn the noblest science,--acting well! And let no world the seal of truth displace, Or spoil the heart's accordance with the face! * * * * * TO THE SAME, ON RECEIVING FROM HER A FEW FLOWERS OUT OF A BOUQUET, FROM MELCHBOURNE, 1807. Hail! sweet Louisa! o'er these votive flow'rs Friendship and Fancy weave the joyful song, Wing with fresh rose-leaves all the train of hours, That in the distant aether float along! Like those fair flowrets given by thy hand, Like thy own beauty, blooming and serene, The vision of thy future life is plann'd, And forms a clear, a bright, and varied scene! That countenance so gentle, and so kind, That heart, which never gave a harsh decree, Suit all the turns of thy harmonious mind, And must, perforce, with destiny agree. This from the Sibyl's leaves affection drew, O, be the omen just! the promise true! * * * * * TO THE RIVER WHICH SEPARATES ITSELF FROM THE DEE, AT BEDKELLERT. July 19, 1799. Let others hail the tranquil stream, Whose glassy waters smoothly flow, And, in the undulating gleam, Reflect another world below! The yellow Conway as it raves, Demands my tributary song! When, rushing forth, resistless waves O'er rocky fragments foam along! Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews The troubles which around him roll; The ceaseless warfare still pursues, And keeps a firm, undaunted soul. Though sternly bent by toil and care, The brow hang darkly o'er his eye-- His features the fix'd meaning wear Of one who knows not how to sigh. It is not apathy that reigns, O'erweening arrogance, or pride, For, in his warmly-flowing veins, The genial feelings all reside. It is the breast-plate fortitude Should still to injury oppose; It is the shield with power imbu'd, To blunt the malice of his foes.