Once more between La Borde and me !—

Ah, wish not what will never be!

For wandering planets have their rules,

Well known in astronomic schools;

But life's swift wheels will ne'er turn back,

When once they've measured o'er their track.

Eleven years, twice five and one,

Is a long hour in Beauty's sun:

Those years will pilfer many a grace

Which decks La Borde's enchanting face;

The little Loves which round her fly,

Will moult the wing, and droop, and die:

And I, grown dull, my lyre unstrung

In some old chimney corner hung,

Gay scenes of Paris all forgot,

Shall rust within my silent cot:

Life's summer ended, and life's spring,

Nor she shall charm, nor I shall sing.
Even Cook, upon whose blooming brow

The youthful graces open now,

Eleven years may vastly change:

No more the Provinces he 'll range;

No more with humid eyes entreat,

And wait his doom at Beauty's feet;

Married and grave, he'll spend his time
Far from the idleness of rime;

Forgetting oranges and myrtle,

Will drink his port and eat his turtle;
Perhaps with country justice sit,

And turn his back on thee and Wit.

For thee, my friend, whose copious vein
Pours forth at will the polished strain,
With every talent formed to please,

Each fair idea quick to seize ;

Who knows within so long a space

What scenes the present may efface,

What course thy stream of life may take,

What winds may curl, what storms may shake,

What varying colours, gay or grave,

Shall tinge by turns the passing wave;

Of objects on its banks what swarms-
The loftier or the fairer forms-

Shall glide before the liquid glass,
And print their image as they pass ?

Let Fancy then and Friendship stray
In Pleasure's flowery walks today,
Today improve the social hours,

And build today the Muse's bowers;
And when life's pageant on will go,

Try not to stop the passing show;
But give to scenes that once were dear,

A sigh, a farewell, and a tear.

TO THE BARON DE STONNE,

WITH AIKIN'S ESSAY ON SONG-WRITING.

To Gallia's gay and gallant coast
Haste, little volume, speed thy flight;
And proudly there go make thy boast
How Britons love-how Britons write.

Say, Love can hold his torch as high

Beneath our heaven deformed with showers,

As in her pure and brilliant sky,

By vine-clad hills or myrtle bowers:

Ask if her damsels bloom more fair;

Ask if her swains can love as true;
And urge her poets' tuneful care
To sing their praise in numbers due.

TO THE MISS WEBSTERS,

WITH DR. AIKIN'S “WISH,” WHICH THEY EXPRESSED

A DESIRE TO HAVE A COPY OF.

Nor this the Wish in life's first, gayest page,

Becomes your opening years and golden prime;
Not these the hopes should your soft thoughts engage,
Whose buds of joy are yet uncropt by Time.

When blood begins to creep, when fled is youth,

And nature verges toward lethargic rest,

Gardens and groves the languid mind may soothe,

And fire-side comforts satisfy the breast.