Which speak the feelings and no more;
Which give respect the glow of passion,
When worth and valour we adore;
Blest is the hero in receiving!
And pride may scoff at, or despise,
What if but once sincere believing,
Is grateful to the good and wise.
XXIII.
On the Death of Master Frederic Thomson.
In the first dawn of youth I much admire The lively boy of ruddy countenance, Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair, And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white, Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hour Of inward passion, or of sudden joy; When, as a monarch, gracious and renown'd, Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all, Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart; Or, as the sun throws his pervading beams At once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky; The soul, by union of its light and heat, Clears and irradiates all, and gives to strength A mellow sweetness; hues late undefin'd Grow more intense, or, if discordant, lose Their coarseness, and become diaphanous. This I admire, but still methinks I look With a serener pleasure on the head Crested by flaxen curls; or where soft locks, Like to long coiling leaves that lose their edge, Shine silken on the cheek, and parting smooth
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