What though the social circle be denied, Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside, Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, While musing Memory dwells on former days; Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles--and still forgiven, Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. Then heap the fire--shut out the biting air, And from its station wheel the easy chair: Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet To hear without the bitter tempest beat, All, all alone--to sit, and muse, and sigh, The pensive tenant of obscurity. * * * * * TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM." "Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel. Yea, I do feel--most exquisitely feel; My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye, I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh: Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. On this I act--whatever pangs surround, 'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound! When all was new, and life was in its spring, I lived an unloved, solitary thing; Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day The piercing cares that wore my youth away: Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel; Even then I wept I had not power to heal: Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom. Who were my friends in youth?--The midnight fire-- The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir; To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight, To bless my lonely taper's friendly light; I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn; The sacred source of woe I never ope, My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, Though the cold crowd the secret never know; With them I laugh--yet, when no eye can see, I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought, In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, And read the truth that in my bosom lies; I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone, Thy heart and mine had mingled into one! Yes--and they yet will mingle. Days and years Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears: We then shall feel that friendship has a power To soothe affliction in her darkest hour; Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, And wait the passport to a better land. Thine H.K. WHITE. Half past Eleven o'clock at Night. CHRISTMAS DAY. 1804. Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp, From silence and neglect--one lofty strain; Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, And speaking mysteries more than words can tell, I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high, Would join the dirge of the departing year.