Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse, All, all thy wrongs; — and then do thou forget As wish can make thee-Laugh, and play, and sing, Yet hist, I hear a step. · In this dark wood — As that a man of wit and sense, Should leave his books to hoard up pence. Forsake the loved Aonian maids, For all the petty tricks of trades, I never, either now, or long since, Should leave a life of sacred leisure, A truly pious methodist preacher, I stand aghast! thy virtues sum too, And wonder what this world will come to ! Yet, whence this strain? shall I repine That thou alone dost singly shine? Shall I lament that thou alone, Of men of parts, hast prudence known? LINES ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN. OH, Warton! to thy soothing shell, What pleasing themes thy page adorn, Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed; Softly sings of mental pain, But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er ! For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, Now, now the rising fire thrills high, The soul entranc'd, on mighty wings Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. TO THE MUSE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. I. ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns - the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal. II. Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, What is the charm which leads thy victims on III. Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; I, who have drank from thine ethereal rill, And tasted all the pleasures that abound Upon Parnassus' lov'd Aonian hill? I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye thrill! Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. |