THE POET'S FATE.
Why idly, shepherd, thro' the live-long day,
In thriftless song, thy youthful leisure waste?
The busy world now beckons thee away,
Oh quit thy dream, of solid joys to taste;
Nor vainly liberal of youth's golden prime,
Give to the thankless Muse, thy swiftly fleeting time!
In thriftless song, thy youthful leisure waste?
The busy world now beckons thee away,
Oh quit thy dream, of solid joys to taste;
Nor vainly liberal of youth's golden prime,
Give to the thankless Muse, thy swiftly fleeting time!
Say, will thy Muse, 'mid Fortune's varying gleams,
On age and want her airy favours shed,
Lull thee with hopes, and flatter thee with dreams,
And bind her laurels round thy drooping head;
On age and want her airy favours shed,
Lull thee with hopes, and flatter thee with dreams,
And bind her laurels round thy drooping head;
