the poet's fate.
11
Urg'd, while thy lips her poison'd chalice drain'd,
And on thy wasting form each lurid eye-ball strain'd!
And on thy wasting form each lurid eye-ball strain'd!
Yet, from thy breast, tho' each fair form was fled,
Pride held her sullen empire in thy soul—
"What! shall I, bending low my laurel'd head,
From affluence ask the slowly yielded dole,
From Pity's boon, life's poor support obtain,
Or drag its weary load in Flattery's helot train!"
Pride held her sullen empire in thy soul—
"What! shall I, bending low my laurel'd head,
From affluence ask the slowly yielded dole,
From Pity's boon, life's poor support obtain,
Or drag its weary load in Flattery's helot train!"
Oh! ever following in the Muse's rear,
Of perish'd hopes, a spectre band is seen;
There, Melancholy drops the frequent tear;
There, Memory raves of joys that once have been;
There keen-eyed Want assails with famish'd cry—
Who clanks the sounding chain?—'tis wild Insanity!
Of perish'd hopes, a spectre band is seen;
There, Melancholy drops the frequent tear;
There, Memory raves of joys that once have been;
There keen-eyed Want assails with famish'd cry—
Who clanks the sounding chain?—'tis wild Insanity!
