Whilst from the cloistered schools rushed forth in view The eager Bachelors, on lucre bent, Or life voluptuous; even the studious few, Oblivious mostly, if they ever knew What Nature mirrored and fair learning meant; Thou, better taught, on worthier aims intent, Short distance from the Pilgrims’ sea-washed street Thine orchard planted; grove and garden there, And sheltering coppice hide thy mansion neat, By winding alley reached, and gay parterre; Where cordial welcome chosen friends shall meet, From courteous host and graceful lady fair; Then thy choice fruits we taste, thy wisdom hived, England’s rare Evelyn in thee revived. “_Thou art not gone, being gone,--where’er thou art, Thou leav’st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart._” DONNE. XVI. Bright visions of my sprightlier youthful days, With sunny gleams of answering friendliness, Thou brought’st me, maiden, in delightful ways, In conversation, letters, frank address; And these attractions did me so possess, The moments all were thine, and thou in sight By day’s engagements, and in dreams by night. Wished I the spell dissolved, or ever less? Ne’er may advancing years remove one tint From memory’s tablet of that happy time; And if thus tamely that romance I hint, Forgive my poor endeavor in this rhyme, Nor warrant give me now, my cherished friend, To add the more, lest I the more offend. Ἀστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἑῷος, Νῦν δὲ θανὼν λάμπεις Ἕσπερος ἐν φθιμένοις. “_Thou wert a morning star among the living Ere thy fair light had fled; Now, being gone, thou art as Hesperus, giving New lustre to the dead._” PLATO. XVII. Sweet saint! whose rising dawned upon the sight Like fair Aurora chasing mists away; Our ocean billows, and thy western height Gave back reflections of the tender ray, Sparkling and smiling as night turned to day:-- Ah! whither vanished that celestial light? Suns rise and set, Monadnoc’s amethyst Year-long above the sullen cloud appears, Daily the waves our summer strand have kissed, But thou returnest not with days and years: Or is it thine, yon clear and beckoning star, Seen o’er the hills that guarded once thy home? Dost guide thy friend’s free steps that widely roam Toward that far country where his wishes are? “_Thus sing I to cragg’d clifts and hills, To sighing winds, to murmuring rills, To wasteful woods, to empty groves, Such things as my dear mind most loves._” HENRY MORE. XVIII.