I Often Thought To Write To Thee, What Time I Almost Fancied Heaven-Born, Genius Mine, And Fondly Hoped My Island Harp To Wake, To Some New Strain Sung For My Country'S Sake. 'Twas A Vain Hope And Yet Its Presence Smiled Upon My Day Dreams When I Was A Child, And Only Faded When My Heart Grew Cold, For Head And Heart Alike Are Getting Old. Had I Been Gifted, Some Bright Lay Would Be, With Touching Melody, Poured Forth For Thee. Now, What I Think The Best I Wish For Thee. * * * May You Never Be A Stranger; Ever Living With Your Own, With The Same Eyes Beaming Round You, That On Your Childhood Shone. Friendship Knitting True Hearts To You, From Youth To Kindly Age; And Affection Brightening, Gladdening Your Pleasant Heritage. Yet Not Wishing To Live Always, Or Shrinking Back Afraid, When You Come--As Come We All Must And Pass Over To The Dead. With A Hope Then Firmly Anchored, Of A Living Faith Possessed, Passing From Among Your Kindred Into Everlasting Rest.