University of Virginia Library

At intervals, the muse of Philo sung
In strains like these, then silent was her tongue.
The hand that holds the fatal potion shakes,
Invention's fled, the nervous feeling wakes;
His eyes have lost their fire, his faltering tongue
Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong,
His memory's fled, invention laid at rest—
His heart-strings quiver in his weakened breast;
But still the thoughts of other bards' despair,
The sons of misery and rankling care,
Prompted a last, though enervated lay,
And this the substance of his weak essay: