Thanks, gifted bard, to thee best thanks are due, For graceful lay, in melody attuned, Like thine own gurgling springs, harmonious flow; The subject, too, that interests ev’ry heart, That lists, or can appreciate thy song; So touching, simple, every flowing word; A narrative of courage, sweetly told, Exploit of one, a fair Northumbrian maid; Made doubly deathless, too, by verse of thine: Poet excursive, of sweet Ambleside, Whose philosophic mind, in pensive mood, Surveys with nice discernment nature’s sweets, Each herb, upspringing seen, o’erhung with dew, Or lowly daisy, in sequestered nook, That meets the cherished glance of thy fond gaze, When morn thy steps hath led o’er dewy mead, As the keen air blows fresh upon thy cheek: There’s not a sound escapes thy tuneful ear, As hum of insect, or the minstrel lark, That swells her highest note to hail the dawn; But every feeling in accordance found, With wide luxuriant nature, bounteous spread, Leads thee to moralize, and ponder deep: O! sight, ennobling to humanity! And if exalted, ’tis exalted here, To see the good man in the vale of years, And that a poet, too, of well-earned fame, (On whom the laureateship has been bestowed,) In virtue’s fond pursuit pre-eminent, Stealing his way, like autumn’s closing eve, That gilds th’ horizon, ere it sinks to rest: With youthful freshness of his mental powers, In vigour intellectual, still poured forth; Delight to give, and admiration claim, From those who love the hallowed feast of mind, And have a taste for pure ambrosial food; Whose muse hath gait sedate, and grovels not In low pursuit--but soars on loftier wing, Her pinion silvered, as with virtue bright; Whene’er a theme, a fitting theme invites, To lure, as late it hath, thy master chord, Attuned to her, the wreck’s life-saving child, The skiff-toss’d maiden, of the “Light-House” known, For prowess sanctified by approving Heav’n. THE EMIGRANTS. “Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.”--_Goldsmith._