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LAMENTINGS.
“I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most precious to me.”
h! where are now the lights that shed
A lustre o’er my darkened hours,
The priests of pleasure’s fane, who spread,
Each night beneath my weary head,
Endymion’s moonlight couch of flowers?
No more in chains of music bound,
I listen to those airy reels,
When quavering Philipps cuts around
Fantastic pigeon-wings of sound,
Like Byrne,67 who, without touching ground,
Eleven times can cross his heels.
No longer Cooper’s tongue of tongues,
Pumps thunder from his stormy lungs;
Turner68 has shut his classic pages,
Southward his face Magenis68 turns,
And for the halls of Congress spurns
The mansion of our civic sages.
