152 HENRY KIRKE WHITE S POEilS. 



And misery her steps pursue. 

 Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, 

 By the sweet honours of poetic bays, 

 Vv'hen Sidney sung his melting song, 

 When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng, 

 And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. 

 Those days are gone — alas, for ever gone ! 



No more our nobles love to grace 

 Their brows with anadems, by genius won, 

 But arrogantly deem the muse as base ; 

 How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race !'* 



1.2. 



Thus sang the minstrel : — still at eve 



The upland's woody shades among 

 In broken measures did he grieve. 



With solitary song. 

 And still his shame was aye the same, 



Neglect had stung him to the core ; 

 And he, with pensive joy did love 

 To seek the still congenial grove, 



And muse on all his sorrows o'er. 

 And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. 



II. 2. 



But human vows, how frail they be ! 



Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, 

 And all amazed, he thought to see 



The Augustan age anew. 

 Filled with wild rapture, up he rose, 

 No more he ponders on the woes, 

 Which erst he felt that forward goes, 



Regrets lie'd sunk in impotence, 

 And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 



Ah ! silly man, yet smarting sore, 

 With ills which in the world he bore, 

 Again on futile hope to rest, 

 An unsubstantial prop at best. 



