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DEATH OF CHATTERTON.
3
And now a flash of indignation high
Darts thro' the tear, that glistens in mine eye!
Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
Pour'd forth his lofty strain?
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd
And o'er her darling dead
Pity hopeless hung her head,
While "mid the pelting of that merciless storm,"
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form!
B 2
