Epistle The Fifth Poem by Robert Anderson

TO ROBERT ANDERSON.

While on the Lyne's romantic stream,
Meek ev'ning threw her farewell beam,
In mem'ry's soft reflected hue
Those rapt'rous hours return'd to view,
When you, in vales that blush'd with flow'rs,
Entranc'd the ear with music's pow'rs:
But, since you bade these vales farewell,
No bard awakes the vocal shell;
No flute e'er breathes the woods among,
Symphonious to the milk--maid's song:
Our merry--nights, where pleasure ties
Her garlands of a hundred dies,
Where love glows with his purest flame,
Leave no memorials of their fame;
Our meddings, where the dance and bowl
Bathe, in the fount of bliss, the soul,
Pass like the dreams of night away,
The subject of no minstrel's lay:
And the fair maids of Eden's plain
Implore a poet's aid in vain,
To paint their roses ere they die,
And the blue languish of their eye.

Come, then, my friend, and bring with thee
That welcome heart--the heart of glee;
Thy flute will cheer my bow'rs once more,
And all my long--lost joys restore;
Bright will my ev'ning star go down,
Though Fortune and my Juliet frown;
'Mid social hours of radiant hue,
To pallid care I'll bid adieu;
O'er Gibson's ale, the festive night
Shall fly on pinions soft and light;
The tale and song's enchanting pow'r
Shall long protract the parting hour;
And, till on Eden's chrystal stream
The morning's purple splendour beam,
The glass, in streamy pride, shall roll
A tide of transport o'er the soul.

Oh! tell me, soon, in prose or rhyme,
What fills the void of vacant time:
Are still th' inspiring Muses kind?
Do their green wreathes thy temples bind?
On Erin's shore, oh! do they meet
Their poet with their visions sweet?
And do the loves and young desires
Still flutter o'er thy joyous wires?
Still does the enchantress beauty dart
Her charms upon thy captiv'd heart?
Or does the harp of sorrow mourn
O'er love or friendship's timeless urn?

Perhaps, in fancy's magic glass,
Thy native vales before thee pass;
Those scenes of sweet delight appear
That to the eye of youth were dear:
Perhaps the nymphs of Eden's stream
My smile in some poetic dream;
May come in each attractive form,
With beauty, love, or virtue warm!
'Twas thus the sweetest bard of Rome,

When banished from his friends and home,
Upon the ling'ring moment threw
Reflected joys of every hue;
More precious far than Caesar's throne
An imag'd world he made his own!
In fancy's visionary light
The Tyber darted on his sight;
And every scene o'er which he hung
With exstacy, when life was young,
Return'd to soothe an exile's hours,
And gleam upon his shadowy bow'rs.
Then, oh! then, no longer frown'd
The wildness of the desart round;
The howling of the tempest's blast,
Unheard, amidst the grey rocks, past;
And, on the bosom of the deep,
The angry surges seem'd to sleep.

Oh! could, dear friend, a verse of mine
The treasures of the soul enshrine,
The richness of thy worth should glow,
When o'er my grave the wild winds blow;
And green should distant ages find
The wreath that sacred friendship twin'd:
But, ah! my rude, unpolished lay
Is but the record of a day;
Soon, soon, dear friend, my rustic rhyme
Shall feel the deadly touch of time;
Oblivion's ruthless hand shall shed
Her night--shades o'er thy Crito's head;
And not a line of living fame
Shall bear to future times his name!