Then that falling beech Was a young, graceful tree; which, starting up, Amid the looser fragments of the rock, Rear'd boldly in the air its lofty head, While, struggling with the stone, the nervous roots Pursued their own direction, elbowing out, Their flinty neighbour; who, o'erspread with moss, Of varied hues, and deck'd with flow'ring heath, That from each fissure hung luxuriant down, Became a seat, where, king of all the scene, The harper sate, and, in sweet melodies, Now like the lark rejoicing at the dawn, Now soothing as the nightingale's sad note, Hail'd the departing sun, whose golden rays Glitter'd upon the surface of the wave, And, as a child upon its mother's arm Seeks to delay the coming hour of rest, Till sudden slumbers steal upon his smiles And veil him in a dream of love and joy, He seem'd reluctant to withdraw his beams; And, rich in roseate beauty, for awhile Kept the green waves beneath his glowing head. Kind, gentle Osborne! half a century Has silver'd o'er the crisp and yellow locks Of thy young auditor, but memory still Grasps the torn record of my weary life. And finds full many a page to tell of thee! Oh! ye who have a friend ye truly love, One whom your hearts can trust, whose excellence Was not obtruded boastingly to view, But time and happy circumstance reveal'd, Rays of quick light upon a diamond Which else had lain unnotic'd in the waste! Oh! hasten! hasten speedily to pay Each debt of fond affection! lock not up So cautiously the tribute due to worth! Nor let reserve, as I have often done, Enslave the sweetest feelings of the soul! And hang around them like an envious mist, O'er the bright radiance of the morning star, Leaving us nothing but a spot of light Bereav'd of all its lustre! For my friend, He never knew that there was one on earth, After a parent felt the touch of death, And Love, a weeping pilgrim, turn'd away Far from his dwelling--Oh! he never knew, That there was one who would have follow'd him, With steady kindness, even to the grave! Thou dear, neglected friend! to whom I owe All that sustains my heart, and makes me think The gift of life a blessing, Oh! forgive That in thy sorrows, my forgetful tongue Spake not of zeal and service; of the debt Which gratitude was emulous to pay! I might have trimm'd the dying lamp of hope, And cheer'd the bitter hours of banishment: But Oh! my youth was fearful, and I felt So deep an awe of that unspotted worth And saint-like gentleness--such a mistrust Of my own powers to tell him what I wish'd, That I resisted all my feelings claim'd, In anguish I resisted; but a spell Hung o'er me and compell'd me to be mute.