Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/127

Rh Through winding paths, along the glade I trace

The social smile of every welcome face;

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,

Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,

Our feuds dissolv'd, but not my friendship past,—

I bless the former, and forgive the last.

Hours of my youth! when, nurtur'd in my breast,

To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,—

Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,

When every artless bosom throbs with truth;

Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,

And check each impulse with prudential rein;

When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,

In love to friends, in open hate to foes;

No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,

No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;

Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,

Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears:

When, now, the Boy is ripen'd into Man,

His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;

Instructs his Son from Candour's path to shrink,

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;

Still to assent, and never to deny—

A patron's praise can well reward the lie: