Neglected Genius A Poem. Illustrating the Untimely And Unfortunate Fate Of Many British Poets; From the Period of Henry the Eighth to the Aera of the Unfortunate Chatterton. Containing Imitations of their Different Styles, &c. &c. By W. H. Ireland |
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THE
Foregoing Stanzas
IN THE MODERN STYLE OF VERSIFICATION. |
 | Neglected Genius |  |
125
THE Foregoing Stanzas IN THE MODERN STYLE OF VERSIFICATION.
Sad is my heart, no beamy joy I find,
Thy cruel dart, O misery, reigns in me;
Sorrow holds empire o'er my thoughtful mind,
Moaning I 'list thy swelling poesy;
With humid eyes the cheerful lay forget,
And seem like Winter's sun, for ever set;
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poet's glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
Thy cruel dart, O misery, reigns in me;
Sorrow holds empire o'er my thoughtful mind,
Moaning I 'list thy swelling poesy;
With humid eyes the cheerful lay forget,
And seem like Winter's sun, for ever set;
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poet's glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
126
Bright were his orbs as glitt'ring stars on high,
Glossy the locks that wav'd his front around,
Erect his visage gaz'd on kindred sky,
He caught enwrapp'd the sphere's seraphic sound;
Then seiz'd the lyre, and tun'd an heav'nly lay,
But now in death is blighted fancy's ray;
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poet's glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
Glossy the locks that wav'd his front around,
Erect his visage gaz'd on kindred sky,
He caught enwrapp'd the sphere's seraphic sound;
Then seiz'd the lyre, and tun'd an heav'nly lay,
But now in death is blighted fancy's ray;
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poet's glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
Chill'd is that form which manhood scarce proclaim'd,
Froze are the purple streams of dawning youth;
Fled is that spirit by the muses fam'd,
Lost is the child of poetry and truth;
Mute and unstrung behold his matchless lyre,
No hand to emulate the god-like fire;
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poets glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
Froze are the purple streams of dawning youth;
Fled is that spirit by the muses fam'd,
Lost is the child of poetry and truth;
Mute and unstrung behold his matchless lyre,
No hand to emulate the god-like fire;
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poets glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
127
Here then with pensive mind I'll weep thy doom,
And silent shed the sadly swelling tear;
Cherish, O cypress tree, thy mournful gloom,
And hallow still the spot that shrines thy bier;
And as my moanings greet the sullen wind,
In sorrowing numbers thus I'll breathe my mind:
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poet's glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
And silent shed the sadly swelling tear;
Cherish, O cypress tree, thy mournful gloom,
And hallow still the spot that shrines thy bier;
And as my moanings greet the sullen wind,
In sorrowing numbers thus I'll breathe my mind:
Sad sounds my minstrelsy;
The poet's glow
Lies cold below,
All under the cypress tree.
| Neglected Genius | |