Poems (Holford)/The Poet's Fate
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;
Bless with bright visions thy declining hour,
And on thy closing ears her heavenly accents pour?
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;
Bless with bright visions thy declining hour,
And on thy closing ears her heavenly accents pour?
Or will she, should neglect thy bosom rend,
From thy dim eye forbid the tear to flow,
Teach thee, unmov'd, to meet each alien friend,
And bid thee smile on Memory's hoarded woe?
Will air-built castles yield thy homeless form
Rest from perturbing cares, and shelter from the storm?
From thy dim eye forbid the tear to flow,
Teach thee, unmov'd, to meet each alien friend,
And bid thee smile on Memory's hoarded woe?
Will air-built castles yield thy homeless form
Rest from perturbing cares, and shelter from the storm?
How wilt thou bear, when Folly's ideot smile
Shall coldly mark thee for the vulgar scorn;
And sneering, thank indulgent Heav'n the while
That genius beam'd not on her natal morn;
But worldly thrift a glimmering light supplied,
She hail'd the taper's gleam—and took it for her guide?
Shall coldly mark thee for the vulgar scorn;
And sneering, thank indulgent Heav'n the while
That genius beam'd not on her natal morn;
But worldly thrift a glimmering light supplied,
She hail'd the taper's gleam—and took it for her guide?
Whilst thou, poor Bard, the Muse's luckless child,
In evil hour a dazzling track pursued,
Which steer'd thy wandering course thro' regions wild,
Where never Prudence led her pigmy brood,
Where never toil uptore the verdant sod
To seek man's glittering prize, his earth-extracted god!
In evil hour a dazzling track pursued,
Which steer'd thy wandering course thro' regions wild,
Where never Prudence led her pigmy brood,
Where never toil uptore the verdant sod
To seek man's glittering prize, his earth-extracted god!
There, seldom Fortune's summer-breathing gale!
Fans the young impulse with auspicious wing,
But Poverty uprears her visage pale,
And checks, with icy grasp, the bosom-spring,
Blasts the fair promise of youth's vernal hour,
Arrests the vital sap, and nips each opening flower!
Fans the young impulse with auspicious wing,
But Poverty uprears her visage pale,
And checks, with icy grasp, the bosom-spring,
Blasts the fair promise of youth's vernal hour,
Arrests the vital sap, and nips each opening flower!
Ah! many a name does dark oblivion claim,
Once cherished names, to faithless genius dear!
Ah! many a Bard, too late the boast of Fame,
Press'd with cold limbs an unattended bier,
And felt unmark'd hope's transient hectic die,
And breath'd, where none could hear, his last unecho'd sigh!
Once cherished names, to faithless genius dear!
Ah! many a Bard, too late the boast of Fame,
Press'd with cold limbs an unattended bier,
And felt unmark'd hope's transient hectic die,
And breath'd, where none could hear, his last unecho'd sigh!
Thus vainly, Otway, did thy numbers flow,
Thus idly, swell'd thy unavailing song?
Ah! did thy Muse immortal aid bestow
When Famine's fever parch'd thy tuneful tongue?
When man, thy brother, from thy suppliant eye
Regardless turn'd away, and let the poet die?
Thus idly, swell'd thy unavailing song?
Ah! did thy Muse immortal aid bestow
When Famine's fever parch'd thy tuneful tongue?
When man, thy brother, from thy suppliant eye
Regardless turn'd away, and let the poet die?
Oh why each throbbing sense to anguish wake?
Why, on the Bard, fix Fate's tremendous seal
Which bids him suffer for the Muse's sake
Such pangs, as common souls ne'er dar'd to feel?
Why does the touch of Sorrow's venom'd dart
Thro' ev'ry fine-strung nerve run quivering to his heart?
Why, on the Bard, fix Fate's tremendous seal
Which bids him suffer for the Muse's sake
Such pangs, as common souls ne'er dar'd to feel?
Why does the touch of Sorrow's venom'd dart
Thro' ev'ry fine-strung nerve run quivering to his heart?
Oh, Chatterton! how gay thy morn arose!
Bright on thy youth celestial Genius smil'd,
But "Poverty the genial current froze,"
And Misery clasp'd thee, her devoted child!
Urg'd, while thy lips her poison'd chalice drain'd,
And on thy wasting form each lurid eye-ball strain'd!
Bright on thy youth celestial Genius smil'd,
But "Poverty the genial current froze,"
And Misery clasp'd thee, her devoted child!
Urg'd, while thy lips her poison'd chalice drain'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!