'Ah!' said I, 'however it has happened, I fear you dislike me strangely.' 'Believe me, you mistake,' answered he. 'With a few foibles (which are themselves as fascinating as foibles can be), you possess many virtues; and, let me add, a thousand attractions. I who tell you blunt truths, may well afford you flattery.' 'Flattery,' said I, pleased by his praises, and willing to please him in return by serious conversation, 'deserves censure only when the motive for using it is mean or vicious.' 'Your remark is a just one,' observed he. 'Flattery is often but the hyperbole of friendship; and even though a compliment itself may not be sincere, our motive for paying it may be good. Flattery, so far from injuring, may sometimes benefit the object of it; for it is possible to create a virtue in others, by persuading them that they possess it.' 'Besides,' said I, 'may we not pay a compliment, without intending that it should be believed; but merely to make ourselves agreeable by an effort of the wit? And since such an effort shews that we consider the person flattered worthy of it, the compliment proves a kind intention at least, and thus tends to cement affection and friendship.' In this manner Stuart insensibly led me to talk on grave topics; and we continued a delightful conversation the remainder of the day. Sometimes he seemed greatly gratified at my sprightly sallies, or serious remarks; but never could I throw him off his guard, by the dangerous softness of my manner. He now calls me the lovely visionary. Would you believe that this laughing, careless, unpathetic creature, is a poet, and a poet of feeling, as the following lines will prove. But whether he wrote them on a real or an imaginary being, I cannot, by any art, extract from him. THE FAREWELL Go, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day, Long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me; A sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say, For far she hastens hence. Ah, hard decree! Tell her I feel that at the parting hour, More than the waves will heave in tumult wild: More than the skies will threat a gushing shower, More than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild. Say that her influence flies not with her form, That distant she will still engage my mind: That suns are most remote when most they warm, That flying Parthians scatter darts behind. Long will I gaze upon her vacant home, As the bird lingers near its pilfered nest, There, will I cry, she turned the studious tome; There sported, there her envied pet caressed. There, while she plied accomplished works of art, I saw her form, inclined with Sapphic grace; Her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart, And all the living treasures of her face. The Parian forehead parting clustered hair, The cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow; The witching archness, and the grace so rare, So magical, it charmed I knew not how.