O skill'd with magic spell to roll The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul! Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again, While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild; And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild. In freedom's undivided dell, Where toil and health with mellow'd love shall dwell-- Far from folly, far from men, In the rude romantic glen, Up the cliff, and through the glade, Wand'ring with the dear-loved maid, I shall listen to the lay, And ponder on thee far away;-- Still as she bids those thrilling notes aspire (Making my fond attuned heart her lyre), Thy honour'd form, my friend! shall reappear, And I will thank thee with a raptured tear! 1794. [Footnote 1: Mr. Hort was a Unitarian clergyman, and in 1794 second master in Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Estlin's school on St. Michael's Hill, Bristol. Ed.] TO CHARLES LAMB, WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM. Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme Elaborate and swelling;--yet the heart Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) From business wand'ring far and local cares, Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister's bed With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, Soothing each pang with fond solicitude, And tenderest tones medicinal of love. I, too, a sister had, an only sister--[1] She loved me dearly, and I doted on her; To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows; (As a sick patient in a nurse's arms,) And of the heart those hidden maladies-- That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed. O! I have waked at midnight, and have wept Because she was not!--Cheerily, dear Charles! Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year; Such warm presages feel I of high hope! For not uninterested the dear maid I've view'd--her soul affectionate yet wise, Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories That play around a sainted infant's head. He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees, Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love Aught to implore were impotence of mind!) [2] That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,-- Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes, Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart, And praise him gracious with a brother's joy! 1794. [Footnote 1: This line and the six and a half which follow are printed, by mistake, as a fragment in the first volume of the 'Poetical Works', 1834, p. 35. Ed.] [Footnote 2: "I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the line Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love Aught to 'implore' were impotence of mind,--