EPISTLES. Among the rest a shepherd (though but young BROWNE. EPISTLES. S TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW. WEET are the pleasures that to verse belong, Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted, When bright processions took their airy march But might I now each passing moment give Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, Yet this is vain O Mathew! lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him. With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages: And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing |