ODE. 11 



But where the seed is sown, 

 It is not all delight ; 

 Full many a weed is grown 

 Amid the harvest bright ; 

 And many a cloudy night 

 It costs care, sleepless toil, and skill, 

 To guard against the deadly blight ; 90 



For in a fickle sky we still 

 Our trembling tasks fulfil. 

 O, Bard ! on whose renown 

 Envy too oft looks down 

 With spite, and with affected scorn- 

 Full well thou know'st, how deep thou pay'st 

 For the light chaplets that thy brows adorn ; 

 For every melting word thou say'st, 

 An hundred sighs thy breast have torn, 



And many a weary day and night hast thou been left forlorn ! 100 

 With all the vulgar storms of life 

 Thou ill art fram'd to bear the strife ; 



And shivering at the breeze, 

 And pierceable by pelting rain, 

 Thou strugglest on in grief and pain ; 

 And down beneath the shade of trees 

 Afar from human haunts wouldst lie 

 Compose thy weary limbs to rest, arid still thy heart to die ; 



For thou art mingled up 

 Of thousands of conflicting parts ; 1 10 



And when thou drink' st the cup, 

 And when thou feelst the nectar high, that darts 



Its inspiration through thy veins, 

 The conflict, that the drop celestial wakes, 



The very vital spirit takes 

 And with the earthly elements a mortal fight sustains. 



From earliest days, 

 E'en from the cradle's cries, 

 Th' ingredients of unearthly vigour raise 



Contentions, where incessant strife, 120 



The strings of life, 

 With unrepaird exhausture tires. 



And yet sometimes to age 

 The fight, and courage unsubdued, goes on. 



Thus Milton war could wage 

 With Satan's stout rebellious crew, 

 Till seven and sixty years had gone ; 



And Dryden's dancing rhymes 

 Surviv'd the blight of adverse times : 



His mighty strength augmented with his years, 130 



And scorn'd to let his worn-out limbs bend to the grave in tears. 



What tho' ere youth had fled, 

 Byron was number'd with the dead, 



