That made the once-dear friend the sick'ning slave. "Was he forgotten?" Thrice upon his ear Struck the loud clock, yet no relief was near: Each rattling carriage, and each thundering stroke On the loud door, the dream of fancy broke; Oft as a servant chanced the way to come, "Brings he a message?" no! he passed the room.' At length 'tis certain; "Sir, you will attend At twelve on Thursday!" Thus the day had end. Vex'd by these tedious hours of needless pain, John left the noble mansion with disdain; For there was something in that still, cold place, That seemed to threaten and portend disgrace. Punctual again the modest rap declared The youth attended; then was all prepared: For the same servant, by his lord's command, A paper offer'd to his trembling hand: "No more!" he cried: "disdains he to afford One kind expression, one consoling word?" With troubled spirit he began to read That "In the Church my lord could not succeed;" Who had "to peers of either kind applied, And was with dignity and grace denied; While his own livings were by men possess'd, Not likely in their chancels yet to rest; And therefore, all things weigh'd (as he my lord, Had done maturely, and he pledged his word), Wisdom it seem'd for John to turn his view To busier scenes, and bid the Church adieu!" Here grieved the youth: he felt his father's pride Must with his own be shocked and mortified; But, when he found his future comforts placed Where he, alas! conceived himself disgraced - In some appointment on the London quays, He bade farewell to honour and to ease; His spirit fell, and from that hour assured How vain his dreams, he suffer'd and was cured. Our Poet hurried on, with wish to fly From all mankind, to be conceal'd, and die. Alas! what hopes, what high romantic views Did that one visit to the soul infuse, Which cherished with such love, 'twas worse than death to lose. Still he would strive, though painful was the strife, To walk in this appointed road of life; On these low duties duteous he would wait, And patient bear the anguish of his fate. Thanks to the Patron, but of coldest kind, Express'd the sadness of the Poet's mind; Whose heavy hours were pass'd with busy men, In the dull practice of th' official pen; Who to superiors must in time impart; (The custom this) his progress in their art: But so had grief on his perception wrought, That all unheeded were the duties taught; No answers gave he when his trial came, Silent he stood, but suffering without shame; And they observed that words severe or kind Made no impression on his wounded mind: For all perceived from whence his failure rose, Some grief, whose cause he deign'd not to disclose. A soul averse from scenes and works so new, Fear ever shrinking from the vulgar crew; Distaste for each mechanic law and rule. Thoughts of past honour and a patron cool; A grieving parent, and a feeling mind, Timid and ardent, tender and refined: These all with mighty force the youth assail'd,