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Literary Gazette, 20th March, 1824, Pages 186-187
ORIGINAL POETRY.
METRICAL TALES.
Tale IV.—THE TROUBADOUR.
Oh, sleep in silence, or but wake
The songs of sorrow, my loved lute!
Thou wert but waked by one sweet spell—
That spell is over, now be mute.
Yet, wake again, I pray thee, wake;
My soul yet lives upon the chords—
My heart must breathe its wrongs, or break:
Yet can it find relief in words!
My glorious laurel! pine and fade—
Oh, round some happier bard go twine—
Those bright green leaves were never made
To crown a brow so lorn as mine.
