XXII.
TO THE HETMAN, PLATOFF.
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O ancient warrior! as we hail thee,
And behold thy cordial smile,
We hope that greetings ne'er may fail thee,
Such as those of Britain's isle.
They are, although so seeming rude,
Given only where we think them due;
Most courteous, e'en when they intrude,
Too vehement, but always true!
Applauses which no art can fashion,
Which speak the feelings and no more;
Which give respect the glow of passion,
When worth and valour we adore;
Blest is the hero in receiving!
And pride may scoff at, or despise,
What if but once sincere believing,
Is grateful to the good and wise.
XXIII.
_On the Death of Master Frederic Thomson_.
1810.
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In the first dawn of youth I much admire
The lively boy of ruddy countenance,
Strong-built, and bold, and hardy, with black hair,
And dark brown eye, contrasting its blue-white,
Somewhat abruptly; save in the bright hour
Of inward passion, or of sudden joy;
When, as a monarch, gracious and renown'd,
Amid a crowd of subjects, diverse all,
Thrills with one deep, soft feeling every heart;
Or, as the sun throws his pervading beams
At once on bleak harsh mountains and the sky;
The soul, by union of its light and heat,
Clears and irradiates all, and gives to strength
A mellow sweetness; hues late undefin'd
Grow more intense, or, if discordant, lose
Their coarseness, and become diaphanous.
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