The friend, whose oaten reed was tun'd erewhile To minstrel measures, who in sylvan bower Woo'd Gothic fiction, which hath gifted power, To charm the lone retreats of letter'd toil: That gentle friend, who roam'd thro' many a clime Of fabling fancy, gaz'd on tourney high, Or antique maske, or faery revelry, And told his tranced tale in suited rhime; That friend is gone! — but to thy care he gave An anademe of taste-enwoven flowers, Which shall his memory rescue from the grave, And faithfully record to after hours,— That he whose aiding hand the wreath entwin'd, Shares kindred feelings and congenial mind.
