To us his psalms had ne'er descended,—
In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these
by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
But if I scribble longer now,
The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.
Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires!
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires:
The reader's tir'd, and so am I.
October 28, 1806.
- But had they sung.—[4to]
- But if I write much longer now.—[4to. P. on V. Occasions.]