Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey? Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live? Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh--their sad responses give. And canst thou rob a poet of his song; Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives--for to his merits just, Though future ages join his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust? * * * * * LINES. Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy! And many a flower, which in the passing time My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased To hover o'er the many-voiced strings Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, And with recalled images of bliss Warm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw, Once more would throw a quick and hurried hand O'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased-- It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmth Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek; Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy! The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month. Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress! I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but lift Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire, Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood, Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. Yet other duties call me, and mine ear Must turn away from the high minstrelsy Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly Must turn away; there are severer strains (And surely they are sweet as ever smote The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil Released and disembodied), there are strains Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, Through the probation of revolving years, And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, Have purged and purified. To these my soul Aspireth; and to this sublimer end I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep With patient expectation. Yea, sometimes Foretaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimes Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, And minister strange music, which doth seem