Gods! What may not come true, what dream divine, If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine! Remember too elsewhere a certain town, Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down. And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care, And so adieu, dear Byron,-dear to me Next for that frank surprise, when Moore and you Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true, And told me, with your arts of cordial lying, dying ; Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn And e'en were none possessed, for none pretended ;- For a stretched hand, ever the same to me,- Adieu, adieu :—I say no more.-God speed you! Remember what we all expect, who read you. Hampstead, April, 1816. DEAR Tom, who enjoying your brooks and your bowers, Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,— A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing, Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging, I owe you a letter, and having this time A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme ; For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune, Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June'; And when chattering to you, I've a something about me, That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me. I told you, you know, you should have a detail and vale, And threatened in consequence (only admire The metal one's turned to by dint of desire) (By the bye, this comparison, well understood,— Is, modestly speaking, still better than good; |