Heaven have mercy on the wretched Bard
Forced, by a fate as undeserved as hard,
To prostitute the noblest of God's gifts-
The power of intellect to paltry shifts
For mere subsistence, which it scarce will give;
For he, like other men, must eat to live,
And only seems endowed with finer sense

To feel more keenly Fortune's virulence !

No sight, alas! more common, than to see
Fair Genius and repulsive Poverty,

Like two twin brothers, roaming hand in hand,
Inseparable wand'rers through the land:

Like Anteros and Eros, they seem both

Born of one womb, and growing with one growth.

Perhaps (oh agony beyond compare!)

Objects more dear than self his pains must

share;

Then the brave heart, by selfish fears unmoved,

Is crushed beneath the weight of those it loved.

Oh such things are! and 'tis such sights as

these

That make us murmur at the just decrees
Of Providence, and wisdom infinite,

Whose ways are not revealed to mortal sight;
But just they are, though heavy and extreme
To us, who cannot read them right, they seem,
The wretch who sinks beneath some crushing woe,
Can scarce believe that justice guides the blow;
The beaten boy rebels against the rod,

And man against the chastisements of God.

Yet all is best; for little can we know,
Until by time made intimate with woe :
Subject to suffering, by grief refined,
As metal from the crucible, the mind
Emerges purified, and learns from thence
The noblest lesson that experience

Can teach to man-for others' woes to feel,
And taste pure happiness in others' weal.

Hard is the task to tune Apollo's lyre,

And make its strings breathe forth sweet sounds for

hire,

With naught but pinching want for inspiration;
To rack the unready imagination

For thoughts that cannot be compelled; to feel

It is not fame he writes for, but a meal;
Whilst his fagged senses on distraction border,
Be grave or gay, light or severe, to order;

And when on some grand theme he longs to dwell,
Reflect and check himself,—it would not sell!

It is a dreary, dismal tale—become,
By oft repeating, stale and wearisome—
How Genius, in each succeeding age,
Has been a curst and barren heritage.
Whether with eager ardour it pursues,
Like lover bold, the coy, coquettish Muse,
Or worships, lowly, at the shrine of Art,
Or seeks the source of Harmony apart,

Or in the surer paths of Science treads,

Knitting together Wisdom's scattered threadsStriving to please or benefit mankind

The same reward awaits the ardent mind:

For all its pains, neglect, contempt, and laughter, Vain honours, vainer sympathy, hereafter.

'Tis madness, in severe, unfruitful toil To waste the hours, and burn the midnight oil, Till the unwholesome spirit of the lamp Sets on the brow of youth its sickly stamp, And life's sweet spring, the season of delight, Is stripped of all its blossoms by the blight: Its hopes in disappointment's gulf entombed, And all its joyous energies consumed

In the destroying struggle,-after what?

Does Fame bring happiness? It brings it not. E'en if the laurel crown is won whilst life

Remains to wear it, 'tis not worth the strife;

Whilst for that after crop, which does not bear
Till he who sowed the harvest cannot share-

That hope of future Fame, which makes the mind
To all the present's pleasures deaf and blind—
That wretched shadow for which men resign
The substance of content, life's true design-
It is indeed a fever-dream, as vain

As those that mock the sick man's wand'ring brain.
What matters it, when all our bones are rotten,
Whether our name's remembered or forgotten?
Or what avails a monumental bust

Above our undistinguishable dust?

Can the dead hear the praises of the living,
Or sleep more calm for honours of their giving?
Or shall man's verdict, written on our tomb,

In that tremendous day decide our doom,
When at the dread tribunal of the Lord

The soul awaits its ultimate award ?

Oh! who, for such a hope, had ever spent

A life of anxious toil and uncontent;