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How proud the poet's billow swells?
the god! the god! his boast:
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound?
dead bards stench every coast.
the god! the god! his boast:
A boast how vain! What wrecks abound?
dead bards stench every coast.
What then am I? shall I presume,
on such a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rise,
and in my winter, sing;
on such a moulten wing,
Above the general wreck to rise,
and in my winter, sing;
When nightingales, when sweetest bards
confine their charming song
To summer's animating heats,
content to warble young?
confine their charming song
To summer's animating heats,
content to warble young?
Yet, write I must; a [1]lady sues;
how shameful her request?
My brain in labour for dull rhyme?
hers teeming with the best!
how shameful her request?
My brain in labour for dull rhyme?
hers teeming with the best!
But you a stranger will excuse,
nor scorn his feeble strain;
To you a stranger, but, thro' fate,
no stranger to your pain.
nor scorn his feeble strain;
To you a stranger, but, thro' fate,
no stranger to your pain.
The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends,
his old wound bleeds anew;
His sorrows are recall'd to life
by those he sees in you;
his old wound bleeds anew;
His sorrows are recall'd to life
by those he sees in you;
- ↑ Mrs. M———
Too
