there in the world could be. Poor simple wights, ah! little did we ween The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene! Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know This world's a world of weeping and of woe!

Beloved moment! then 'twas first I caught The first foundation of romantic thought! Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. Soon stored with much of legendary lore, The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. Far from the scene of gaiety and noise, Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, I hied me to the thick overarching shade, And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, The days of wild romance antique I'd scan; Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there.

 *  *  *  *  *

PART II.

There are who think that Childhood does not share With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care: Alas! they know not this unhappy truth, That every age, and rank, is born to ruth.

From the first dawn of reason in the mind, Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find; At every step has farther cause to know The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe.

Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught With some new object for romantic thought, The impression of the moment quickly flies, And with the morrow every sorrow dies.

How different manhood!—then does Thought's control Sink every pang still deeper in the soul; Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart Becomes a painful resident in the heart; And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence, We feel a void no joy can recompense, And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom.

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, 

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