"The portrait of this worthy man I'll sometime show, although I can But briefly on his virtues dwell; 'Twould weary you were I to tell Of all the kindness shown to me, Since when an infant on his knee, Beside my father's dying bed, He promised to be mine instead. "A tall and well-formed man was he, Beloved for his humanity. Yea, oft he would so gen'rous be That some called it insanity. Still happily together we, Far from the empty vanity Of public care and worldly strife, Enjoyed a peaceful, quiet life, Without a wish to share or mix In gaiety or politics; Which were, he said, so fraught with tricks, Emoluments on self to fix. It made his spirit boil to see Their mercantile hypocrisy. But though this may at times be true, His must be a distorted view Of legislative law; yet still, How often proud Ambition will Stoop down to acts remote from praise, Himself above a foe to raise. "If harsh at times my uncle might By some be deemed, for what seemed right, Whate'er the cost, he would uphold, Though down his plans and wishes rolled Like sand-banks 'fore the rushing tide, When duty asked him to decide. Residing in this lovely spot, Our guests were few, yet cared we not, For he, in calculations deep, Would pass the day, and then would creep Aloft at night to watch the stars Revolving in their golden cars. But though so much engaged was he, To prove he ne'er neglected me, He lessons gave in Latin, Greek, And French, which he as well could speak, And fast, as a Parisian guide, For he had travelled far and wide. Then sought he cheerful company, More suitable than his could be, Lest he should make a monk of me; For sometimes he could sit for hours A-pondering o'er the force and pow'rs Of comets which had gone astray, To find when they'd return that way. The widow of a valued friend, A helping hand would also lend To guide me, where his skill might fail (Her loss I much as his bewail). Her cottage was in yonder glen, Though much has altered been since then, Where I would creep away from solid worth, To enjoy the smiling cheerfulness and mirth Of fair Rosina, then a beauteous child, Light as the fawn, and oh! I fear as wild; For we together o'er the hills would roam, And through the woods, without a thought of home, Until the clouds, robbed of their tinted light, Told us the brightest day has still its night. "Oh! those, indeed, were bright and joyous days, And blissful visions mem'ry oft will raise Of that blest time, ere Grief, with tyrant sway, From out this breast drove Hope and Peace away.