The sinking sun thy ringlets' gold
Will show; but memory only
The treasures of thy mind unfold
To me when musing lonely.
Oh! may I hope that memory,
That power for ever changing,
Will make thee sometimes think on me,
O'er distant mountains ranging?
Say me not nay; let Fancy cheat
My soul with bland illusion;
And let not Doubt my vision sweet
Dispel by rude intrusion.
Verses,
WRITTEN AT BATH IN 1840, FOR A LITTLE BOY WHO KEPT AN ALBUM, AND WAS A GREAT ADMIRER OF ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN.
Had the kind Muse, young friend, on me
Her pleasing gifts bestowed,
And taught to tread of poesy
The smooth and flowery road;
Then should the deeds of Robin Hood,
And Little John, so bold,
And of the Friar, stout and good,
In numbers high be told.
The merry greenwood should resound
With feats of archery,
And antlered deer along should bound
So light and gracefully!
But vain the hopes: 'gainst Fate's decrees
To struggle I must cease;
I only can write histories
Of England, Rome, and Greece.