I.

Vain , vain, my soul, to seek for BLISS below,
She's fled to Heav'n, and bids us seek her there:
On earth, what breast will guard the C HILD OF WOE ?
What hand the front of pallid Sorrow clear?

II.

B UT MOST THE P OET FEELS ! — disgrac'd and spurn'd,
No parent o'er his ruin'd fortune weeps;
S ILENCE , and M IDNIGHT see his bones inurn'd;
And o'er his tomb impassive dullness sleeps.

III.

None views with awe that clay which Heav'n inspir'd,
That clay, all vivid, with Promethean heat;
None crowns his spot with flow'rs, from noise retir'd;
None sings, to him who sung, the measure sweet.

IV.

What boots it with incessant care to toil,
To bid the tragic Maid sublimely wail;
To raise on H UMOUR 's cheek the kindling smile,
Or, thrill the tender nerve with Pity's tale.

V.

What boots it all? — when, to cold scorn a prey,
No Patron checks young Merit's modest sighs, —
But some fond lip, in future time, shall say,
" Here, yet alive, the charming Poet lies. "