EPISTLE TO DR. ENFIELD, ON HIS REVISITING WARRINGTON IN 1789. FRIENDof those yearswhich from Youth's sparkling fount O when thy feet retrace that western shore Will not thy heart with mixed emotions thrill, While joy or sorrow past alike shall fill Thy glistening eyes with Feeling's tender dew. Shades of light transient Loves shall pass thee by, And glowing Hopes, and Sports of youthful vein; And each shall claim one short, half pleasing sigh, A farewell sigh to Love's and Fancy's reign. Lo there the seats where Science loved to dwell, O seats beloved in vain! Your rising dome Does Desolation spread his gloomy veil Your grass-grown courts and silent halls along? Yet still, perhaps, in some sequestered walk Thine ear shall catch the tales of other times; Still in faint sounds the learned echoes talk, Where unprofaned as yet by vulgar chimes. Do not the deeply-wounded trees still bear The dear memorial of some infant flame? For where her sacred step impressed the Muse, She left a long perfume through all the bowers; Still mayst thou gather thence Castalian dews In honeyed sweetness clinging to the flowers. Shrowded in stolen glance, here timorous Love grave rebuke of careful Wisdom drew, The With wholesome frown austere who vainly strove To shield the sliding heart from Beauty's view. Go fling this garland in fair Mersey's stream, e; Say, Thames to Avon still repeats his theme Visit each shade and trace each weeping rill To holy Friendship or to Fancy known, And climb with zealous step the fir-crowned hill, And if thou seest on some neglected spray The lyre which soothed my careless hours so much; The shattered relic to my hands convey, The murmuring strings shall answer to thy touch. Were it, like thine, my lot once more to tread Plains now but seen in distant perspective, With that soft hue, that dubious gloom o'erspread, That tender tint which only time can give; How would it open every secret cell Where cherished thought and fond remembrance sleep! How many a tale each conscious step would tell! How many a parted friend these eyes would weep! But O the chief!—If in thy feeling breast The tender charities of life reside, If there domestic love have built her nest, And thy fond heart a parent's cares divide; Go seek the turf where worth, where wisdom lies, There, kneeling, weep my tears, and breathe my sighs, |