Which in the lowly inn illumed the night,
The "wood-fire" warm, and "casement swinging free,"
Were stamp'd with teeming interest by thee.
What higher bliss than listening by thy side
Within that cot thy genius sanctified?
Though on thy "noble friend" the diamond shone,
Thy words were richer than the precious stone;
Though on that head there bent the rarest plume,
Thy looks could well a loftier air assume;
Though theirs the pride of coronet and crest,
Thyself wert clad in Inspiration's vest:
And all these baubles, beauteous in the sight,
Might veil their lustre in thy glorious light.

Then, lady, call it not a "_selfish_ strain,"
Thy supplicating wish to "come again."
Deem not the "village inn" "no fitting place"
To greet congenial feeling face to face;
To learn that genius no distinction knows.
But doats upon the meanest flower that blows;
Where e'en thy friends might drop their title's claim,
Forgetting honoured race and ancient name;
Where round your souls the flowers of song might twine,
Lost in the rapture of the bard's design.

* * H.

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