Above a fair and modest countenance, Harmonize with its pure, its tender bloom. Still lovelier when with that infusion sweet Of saint or angel spirit, resident In the calm circle of a blue eye fring'd With sable lashes! I remember once A face like this, ere sickness took away Its freshness, in whose looks there also dwelt, If one may speak it of a thing so young, And not subdue our warm belief to say The prophecy of all these qualities, Refinement, gentleness, and mild resolve; Fitted to stem the evil of this world, And hold with patient intrepidity, The shield of calm resistance to its power. It seem'd as if no anger e'er could dwell Within his bosom; no blind prejudice Distract his judgment; and no folly call For a reproof: as if Affection were Too soon allied to Thought, and tempered so His morning, that the ministry of Time, The chast'ning trial of Remorse and Grief, And of stern Disappointment, all were spar'd.           

            

            

       XXIV.     

 On the Death of Herbert Southey: addressed to his Father.     

             Knowing the nature of thy grief, Too deep, too recent for relief, Oh! why impatient must I press So early on a friend's distress! Why am I eager thus to prove, To him who feels excess of love, The tender liking we bestow On fair and guileless things below? On Love and Joy without pretence, On kind and playful Innocence! The pleas'd idea Memory kept, The partial glance which never slept, When hopes arose oft render'd vain,             Of seeing Keswick yet again.           

                        

             Never but once a child had won So much upon me as thy son; And, for each wild and winning art, That, nestling, fastens in the heart; For graces that light tendrils fling Around each nerve's tenacious string; Caprices beautiful, that strike The heart, and captive fancy, like Those of a tame, young bird at play, That carols near, then flits away, Will on a sudden upward soar, Then 

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