"'Others might wish their soul's delight Should be most lovely to the sight; And beauty vainly I ador'd, Serv'd with my eye, my tongue, my sword; Nay, let me not from truth depart! Enshrin'd and worship'd it at heart. Oft, when her mother fix'd my gaze, Enwrapt, on bright perfection's blaze, Hopes the imperious spell beguil'd, Transcendant thus to see my child: But now, for charms of form or face, Save only purity and grace; Save sweetness, which all rage disarms, Would lure an infant to her arms In instantaneous love; and make A heart, like mine, with fondness ache; I little care, so she be free From such remorse as preys on me!' "My dearest father!--Yet he grew Profoundly anxious, as he knew More of the dangers lurking round; But I was on enchanted ground! Delighted with my minstrel art, I had a thousand lays by heart; And while my yet unpractis'd tongue Descanted on the strains I sung, Still seeking treasure, like a bee, I laugh'd and caroll'd, wild with glee! "Delicious moments then I knew, When the rough winds against me blew: When, from the top of mountain steep, I glanc'd my eye along the deep; Or, proud the keener air to breathe, Exulting saw the vale beneath. When, launch'd in some lone boat, I sought A little kingdom for my thought, Within a river's winding cove, Whose forests form a double grove, And, from the water's silent flow, Appear more beautiful below; While their large leaves the lilies lave, Or plash upon the shadow'd wave; While birds, with darken'd pinions, fly Across that still intenser sky; Fish, with cold plunge, with startling leap, Or arrow-flight across the deep; And stilted insects, light-o-limb, Would dimple o'er the even brim; If, with my hand, in play, I chose The cold, smooth current to oppose, As fine a spell my senses bound As vacant bosom ever found! "And when I took my proudest post, Near him on earth I valued most, (No after-time could banish thence A father's dear pre-eminence,) And felt the kind, protecting charm, The clasp of a paternal arm; Felt, as instinctively it prest, The sacred magnet of his breast, 'Gainst which I lean'd, and seem'd to grow, With that deep fondness none can know, Whom Providence does not assign A parent excellent as mine! That faith beyond, above mistrust, That gratitude, so wholly just, Each several, crowding claim forgot, Whose source was light, without a blot; No moment of unkindness shrouding, No speck of anger overclouding: An awful and a sweet controul, A rainbow arching o'er the soul; A soothing, tender thrill, which clung Around the heart, while, all unstrung, The thought was still, and mute the tongue!