I often thought to write to thee, what time
I almost fancied heaven-born, genius mine,
And fondly hoped my island harp to wake,
To some new strain sung for my country's sake.
'Twas a vain hope and yet its presence smiled
Upon my day dreams when I was a child,
And only faded when my heart grew cold,
For head and heart alike are getting old.
Had I been gifted, some bright lay would be,
With touching melody, poured forth for thee.
Now, what I think the best I wish for thee.

* * *

May you never be a stranger;
Ever living with your own,
With the same eyes beaming round you,
That on your childhood shone.

Friendship knitting true hearts to you,
From youth to kindly age;
And affection brightening, gladdening
Your pleasant heritage.

Yet not wishing to live always,
Or shrinking back afraid,
When you come—as come we all must
And pass over to the dead.

With a hope then firmly anchored,
Of a living faith possessed,
Passing from among your kindred
Into everlasting rest.