Not to thy genius, so diffusely bright,
My Muse, O Southey, pays her homage here,
But to thy virtues, in the private sphere
Of friendship best observ'd. The distant sight
May scan a mountain's majesty, and height,
But only he, whose step hath wander'd near,
Hath seen it's groves, and bosom'd cots appear,
And felt their presence with a home delight.
In early youth, thine ear was kindly lent
To the faint trials of my slender pipe,
And now, when haply still, as then, unripe,
To thee this public tribute I present,
With admiration warm esteem will blend,
And greet thee as the poet less than friend.
My Muse, O Southey, pays her homage here,
But to thy virtues, in the private sphere
Of friendship best observ'd. The distant sight
May scan a mountain's majesty, and height,
But only he, whose step hath wander'd near,
Hath seen it's groves, and bosom'd cots appear,
And felt their presence with a home delight.
In early youth, thine ear was kindly lent
To the faint trials of my slender pipe,
And now, when haply still, as then, unripe,
To thee this public tribute I present,
With admiration warm esteem will blend,
And greet thee as the poet less than friend.
