the poet's fate.
9
Which steer'd thy wandering course thro' regions wild,
Where never Prudence led her pigmy brood,
Where never toil uptore the verdant sod
To seek man's glittering prize, his earth-extracted god!
Where never Prudence led her pigmy brood,
Where never toil uptore the verdant sod
To seek man's glittering prize, his earth-extracted god!
There, seldom Fortune's summer-breathing gale!
Fans the young impulse with auspicious wing,
But Poverty uprears her visage pale,
And checks, with icy grasp, the bosom-spring,
Blasts the fair promise of youth's vernal hour,
Arrests the vital sap, and nips each opening flower!
Fans the young impulse with auspicious wing,
But Poverty uprears her visage pale,
And checks, with icy grasp, the bosom-spring,
Blasts the fair promise of youth's vernal hour,
Arrests the vital sap, and nips each opening flower!
Ah! many a name does dark oblivion claim,
Once cherished names, to faithless genius dear!
Ah! many a Bard, too late the boast of Fame,
Press'd with cold limbs an unattended bier,
And felt unmark'd hope's transient hectic die,
And breath'd, where none could hear, his last unecho'd sigh!
Once cherished names, to faithless genius dear!
Ah! many a Bard, too late the boast of Fame,
Press'd with cold limbs an unattended bier,
And felt unmark'd hope's transient hectic die,
And breath'd, where none could hear, his last unecho'd sigh!
