And hang upon yon willow's bough

The myrtle wreath that twined her brow:

Thou know'st by whom that wreath was gather'd, Thou seest how soon that wreath is wither'd.

Oh! quick the emblem-gift remove;

I cannot sing, and must not love,

Or touch the lyre, or myrtle wear,
Exempt from bliss, and free from care.
Henceforth flow on, my torpid hours;

Indifference! I hail thy powers!

Come, and each keen sensation lull,

And make me languishingly dull,

While thus I offer at thy shrine

What (oh Indifference!) ne'er was thine,

The raptured sigh, the glowing tear,

The fervid hope, the anxious fear,

The blissful thrill, the anguish'd woe,

The freezing doubt, the feeling glow; Nay, take the ling'ring wish to please, But give, oh! give thy cot'rist ease.

THE MINSTREL BOY.

FRAGMENT XXX.

I.

THY silent wing, oh Time! hath chased away

Some feathery hours of youth's fleet frolic joy,

Since first I hung upon the simple lay,

And shared the raptures of a minstrel boy.

II.

Since first I caught the ray's reflected light

Which genius emanated o'er his soul,
Or distant follow'd the enthusiast's flight,

Or from his fairy dreams a vision stole.

III.

His bud of life was then but in its spring,

Mine scarce a germ in nature's bloomy wreath;
He taught my infant muse t' expand her wing,
I taught his youthful heart's first sigh to breathe.

IV.

In sooth he was not one of common mould,

His fervid soul on thought's fleet pinions borne,
Now sought its kindred heaven sublimely bold,

Now stoop'd the woes of kindred man to mourn.

v.

For in his dark eye beams of genius shone

Through the pure crystal of a feeling tear,

And still pale Sorrow claim'd him as her own,

By the sad shade she taught his SMILE to wear.co

VI.

Though from his birth the Muses' matchless boy,

Though still she taught his wild strain's melting flow,
And proudly own'd him with a mother's joy,
He only call'd himself " the CHILD of WOE."

VII.

For still the world each finer transport chill'd

That stole o'er feeling's nerve or fancy's dream,

And when each pulse to Hope's warm pressure thrill'd,

Experience chased Hope's illusory beam.

VIII.

Too oft indeed, by Passion's whirlwind driven,

Far from cold Prudence' level path to stray,
Too oft he deem'd that light" a light from heaven"
That lured him on to PLEASURE's flow'ry way.