"Can I pollute these hallow'd dews,
Fast-welling from th' eternal spring,
Round the repentant couch t' effuse
Which ministers of mercy bring?
"Yet nigh yon chapel's ivied wall,
Scoop me a solitary cell;
There, by the cataract's foaming fall,
In lonely penance will I dwell.
"There, as my orisons I breathe,
And drop with every bead a tear,
To smooth the dark decline of death
My Emma's image will appear.
"Shall I not view that angel-frame,
Dim gleaming on the brow of ev'n,
When the west glows with faded flame,
And tender twilight creeps o'er Heav'n?
"Or when the moon, her empress fair,
Sails slowly through a lambent cloud,
Shall I not view her bosom bare
Long whit'ning through its silver shroud?
"Oh! yes; and woo her sainted shade,
To plead the cause of erring love;
And fondly claim her partial aid,
To mediate for my sins above;
"And pour the grateful rapture wild To Him who link'd in wedded joy Sweet Angela the baron's child,
With Aribert the orphan-boy."
Et genus, et virtus, nisi cum re, vilior algâ est.*
THOUGH lost for ever those delightful dreams
That Fancy o'er the twilight-rapture streams;
No more recluse, with pensive joy, to walk,
Or hearken to the muse's whisper'd talk;
No more to breathe the soul in witching rhyme,
By wizard fount, deep dell, or hill sublime,
What time the sere leaf quivers to the ground,
And Silence sheds her solemn calm around,
And Autumn's tawny hand with touch unseen
Strips from the bending branch its garment green;
And moaning sad through each unblossom'd spray,
Shrieks shrill the awful genius of decay :
Though doom'd, enchanting Poesy, no more
High-charm'd to listen to thy warbled lore;
• Sense is the scorn of every wealthy fool,
And wit in rags is turned to ridicule.
But in oblivion's dusky pool to hide
That flute, whilere my pleasure and my pride,
With which so oft I woke the blushing day,
The lark alone sweet rival of my lay:
Yet the dire vengeance of immortal song
Let genius thunder on the tasteless throng
Who, basely girdled by a scoundrel-train,
Eschew the minstrel, yet adore the strain;
Lift at each line th' ecstatic-rolling eye,
But leave the bard to languish and to die.
For such there are, and such should surely feel
The lasting pang of the poetic wheel;
So shall they boast no more a borrow'd fame,
Unjust usurpers of the patron's name.
Distinguish'd name, by ancientry approv'd;
Which Sidney cherished, and Southampton lov'd:
One did a Spenser, one a Shakspeare raise,
And gave and got inestimable praise.
Ah thou, encompass'd with domestic pain,
Who fondly hop'st to build the lofty strain;
To weave the magic lay whose light and shade,
Deep hues and dazzling colours, must not fade;
Who mount'st Imagination's rainbow wing,
Dipt in gay tints of the Piërian spring ;
Ah! turn, and damp'd be thy enthusiast joy,
To Chatterton, the muse's matchless boy;
With every grace of ancient wisdom blest,
All untaught genius breathing from his breast.
Behold the haughty soul, o'er heav'n that flew,
Submissive for a paltry pittance sue!
Behold those lines that feed the general ear,
Despis'd, discarded, by the listless peer!
Behold (when vain each gentler plea to claim
A little notice of that mighty name)
In scorn too fierce, and disappointment dire,
The wonder of the learned world expire !-
Can studious zeal his rapid flights to trace,
Or catch one meaning shadow of his face;
Can admiration with its late applause,
Or o'er each beauty the astonish'd pause;
Alas! to soothe his lone enanguish'd ghost,
In youth's proud dauntless prime for ever lost,
Though my heart gushes o'er his piteous tale,
Can e'en this honest verse of mine, avail ?
But shouldst thou more on elder proofs rely, Th' historic page shall wound thy injur'd eye. There still, in sad succession, they appear To check thy warmth, and start the tender tear. All chill'd his faery ecstacies divine
With wayward cross, and penury, and pine;
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