'Erin's sons--'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: 'The horn of Fingal--'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: '--the fires gleam--'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iv: 'He trembles in his blood. He rolls convulsive.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote v: '--the mountain of Morven.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. [i] [1] "Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."--HORACE. Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, [ii] While all around in slumber lie, The joyous days, which ours have been Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm, While clouds the darken'd noon deform, Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, I hail the sky's celestial bow, Which spreads the sign of future peace, And bids the war of tempests cease. Ah! though the present brings but pain, I think those days may come again; Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii] To check my bosom's fondest thought, And interrupt the golden dream, I crush the fiend with malice fraught, And, still, indulge my wonted theme. Although we ne'er again can trace, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions, as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold controul, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv] Still, still, despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days, O'er which Remembrance yet delays, [v] Still may I rove untutor'd, wild, And even in age, at heart a child. [vi]