TO THE MEMORY OF CRABBE .

How could I tread this winding shore,
In sadness, or in glee,
By Thee so often paced of yore,
Nor turn, in thought, to thee?

For here were pass'd thy early days,
With fortune waging strife;
And here thy muse's embryo lays
First struggled into life.

Thy verse hath stamp'd on all around
The impress of its truth,
And render'd far and near renown'd
" T HE B OROUGH " of thy youth!

The self-same sea in foam may break
On shores less tame or drear;
But were it only for thy sake ,
These to my heart were dear.