Metrical Effusions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bard of the North! abandon not the Lyre,
Whose strains, so sweetly wild, thy skilful hand
Has taught surrounding nations to admire
Beyond the sleight of all Cecilia's band:
Ne'er shall the wires, by casual breezes fann'd,
Vibrate in harmony more rich than thine;
Nor artist e'er be found in all the land,
Like thee the dregs of fiction to refine
By inspiration's blast, and fancy's flame divine.

When malice shall again invade thy breast,
Misfortune sieze thee in her rude embrace;
Sorrow disturb the chamber of thy rest,
Or envy spread her snares for thy disgrace;
What charm shall then embolden thee to face
Th' impending shock, if thou the strain forego?
Or from thy memory's crowded page erase
The records manifold of former wo,
And all the countless pangs that none but poets know?

There was a time, in numbers, though uncouth,
When I could cheer the solitary hour;
But ere I reach'd the joyous prime of youth,
A fiend of ghastly form, and giant power,
Intruder oft upon the muses' bower,
Dash'd from my feeble grasp the sounding shell;
My fancy from the heights she wont to tower
Drove headlong downward; and by magic spell
Bound her to furnish sport for every imp of hell:

The fairy visions opening to her view
They scatter'd to the winds, and mock'd my pain;
And though her labour she would oft renew
'Twas worthless skill, and labour all in vain;
Yet never could she from the task refrain:—
From thine, alas! how different is my fate!
Thou leav'st the muse, though fame applauds thy strain;
While I, though grovelling in obscure estate,
Pursue her still in spite of more than mortal hate.