To Sir Roderic Murchison

What see I through the mist of years ? a friend,
If the most ignorant of mortal men
In every science, may pronounce his name
Whom every science raises above all . .
Murcheson ! though art he.

Upon the bank
Of Loir thou camest to me, brought by Hare
The witty and warm-hearted, passing through
That shady garden whose broad tower ascends
From chamber over chamber ; there I dwelt.
The flowers my guests, the birds my pensioners.
Books my companions, and but few beside.
After two years the world's devastor
Was driven forth, yet only to return
And stamp again upon a fallen race.
Back to old England flew my countrymen ;

Even brave Benthaoi, whose inventive skill
Baffled at Chesme and submerged the fleet
Of Ottoman, urged me to flight with him
Ere the infuriate enemy arrived.

I wrote to Carnot. I am here at Tours,
And will remain.

He prais'd my confidence
In the French honour ; it was placed in his.
No house but mine was left unoccupied
In the whole city by the routed troops.
Ere winter came 'twas time to cross the Alps,
Como invited me ; nor long ere came
Southey, a sorrowing guest, who lately lost
His only boy. We walkt aside the lake,
And mounted to the level downs above,
Where if we thought of Skiddaw, named it not.
I led him to Bellaggio, of earth's gems
The brightest.

We in England ham as bright,
Said he, and turn'd his face toward the west.
I fancied in his eyes there was a tear,
I know there was in mine : we both stood still.
Gone is he now to join the son in bliss,
Innocent each alike, one longest spared
To show that all men have not lived in vain.

Gone too is Hare : afar from us he lies
In sad Palermo, where the most accurst
Cover his bones with bones of free men slain.

Again I turn to thee, O Murcheson !

Why hast thou lookt so deep into the earth
To find her treasures? Gold we thought had done
Its worst before : now fields are left untill'd,
And cheerful songs speed not the tardy woof.

How dare I blame thee ? 'twas not thy offence,
And good from evil springs, as day from night.
The covetous and vicious delve the mine
And sieve the dross that industry may work
For nobler uses : soon shall crops arise
More plenteous from it, soon the poor shall dwell
In their own houses, and their children throw
Unstinted fuel on the Christmas blaze
With shouts that shake the holly-branch above.