Page:Poems Holford.djvu/21

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the poet's fate.
9
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!

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!