To William Sandford

Sandford ! the friend of all the brave,
Whether sent forward to their grave,
Or whether wearing life away T
With eyes that ache to see that day.
When freedom's arm shall rend the links
From him who groans and him who thinks.
The winds that vex the Appennines
And hold their children from the vines
Will soon lie down again, and rest
On Ocean's gentler-swelling breast.
Then, whether Rhodes your feet detain,
Or Scio with her merrier train.
Or Smyrna, proud of him she bore
And struggled for, in days of yore.
With six great cities . . leave them all
At more than Friendship's distant call,
For one has promist me to bring
Her rosebud hither in the spring.

If you find crowds upon their knees
And shaking off too festive fleas,
'Tis not in reverence of a saint
Glorious in gold, sublime in paint.

Look forward ; not far off you'll see
A saint as female saints should be.

No glory yet around her head
Is visible ; a ray of red
There is, this Modesty has given,
A gift she brought with her from heaven.

Distant she will not let you stand,
Nay, you shall even touch her hand.

This promise to you I will keep,
I can not promise you sound sleep.