Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, No forms of future ill salute thy view, No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life, Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, Affection's little thread will ever twine; And though but frail may seem each tender tie, The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. Thus, when the long expected moment came, When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, And a still tear my silent grief express'd. When to the public school compelled to go, What novel scenes did on my senses flow? There in each breast each active power dilates, Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states; Their reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate, Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate; And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, The dark deformities of man appear. Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, And sweet Contentment rests without her cell; And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 'T was there, O George! with thee I learn'd to join In Friendship's bands--in amity divine. Oh, mournful though!--Where is thy spirit now? As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow, And trace below each well remember'd glade, Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. Where art thou laid--on what untrodden shore, Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar? Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, At last repose from all the storms of fate? Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save; See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend: Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife, Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. Again I see his door against thee shut, The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut; I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief, Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, Think on thy native land--and rise no more! Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode, Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, That thou couldst see him, at this moment here, Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, And hover o'er him as he gazes round, Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. Yes! yes! his spirit's near!--The whispering breeze Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees; And lo! his form transparent I perceive, Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve: He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.