His story, and the crop mown by his art,
Or ere the herald of eternal night
On hk green mound with fabd wing did smite
And cross his hands above his iron heart ?
Or shall we gibbet on some satire here
The name thrice -bought of some pale pamphleteer,
Who, hanger-goaded, from his haunts obscure,
Dared, quiyering with impotence and spite,
Insult the hope on Grenius' brow of light.
And gnaw the wreath his breath had made impure?
The lyre ! the lyre ! I can be still no more.
Upon the breath of spring my pinions fly.
The air supports me — from the earth I soar.
Thou weepest — God has heard — the hour is nigh!
POET.
Dear sister, if thou ask but this.
From friendly lips a gentle kiss.
Or one soft tear from kindly eyes.
These will I gladly give to thee.
Our love remember tenderly.
If thou remountest to the skies.
No longer I of hope shall sing,
Of fame or joy, of love or art,
Alas, not even of suffering,
My lips are locked — I lean and cling.
To hear the whisper of my heart.
