Page:Poems Holford.djvu/22

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10
the poet's fate.
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?

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?

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!