80
TO THE
CHAPEL BELL.
"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;"
For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.
Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus or the Muse's bower:
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus or the Muse's bower:
Better to lie and dose, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain.
