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Thou base repiner at another's joy,
Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. Away, away, it shall not be,
Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;
The truly generous heart disdains
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.
Triumphant monster! though thy schemes suc
ceedSchemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,
Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes
Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,
Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confess’d, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet
Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:
Could'st thou not pitch upon another prey?. Alas! in robbing him thou robb’st the poor, i
Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting,
O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o'er fond. Fancy's pale perspective flitting,
Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd ? [live?
Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,
That short quick sigh-their sad responses give.
And canst thou rob a poet of his song;
Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long;
Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives—for to his merits just,
Though future ages join his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?
Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far
Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased To hover o'er the many-voiced strings Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of bliss Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, Havemark'd full many a day, and week, and month, Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! I cannot burst thy bonds! It is but lift Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. Yet other duties call me, and mine ear Must turn away from the high minstrelsy Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly Must turn away; there are severer strains (And surely they are sweet as ever smote
The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil
Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;
Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,
Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; Spurned by the beings who lured thee from inno
cence; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence;
Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happi
ness; Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling
Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of
death; None åfter thee inquires with solicitude ;