A small part only of my grief I write; And if I do not publish all the tale It is because my gloom gets some respite By just a small bewailing: I bewail That a poet must with stupid folk abide Who steal his food and ruin his inside. Once I had books, each book beyond compare, And now no book at all is left to me; Now I am spied and peeped on everywhere; And this old head, stuffed with latinity, Rich with the poet's store of grave and gay, Will not get me skim-milk for half a day. A horse, a mule, an ass -- no beast have I! Into the forest day by day I go, And trot beneath a load of wood, that high! Which raises on my poor old back a row Of red raw blisters till I cry -- Alack, The rider that rides me will break my back. When he was old, and worn, and near his end, The Poet met Saint Patrick, and was stayed! I am a poet too, and seek a friend; A prop, a staff, a comforter, an aid; A Patrick to lift Ossian from despair, In Cormac Uasail mac Donagh of the Golden Hair! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A BUST OF DANTE by THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS MARE AMORIS by GAMALIEL BRADFORD AN EPIGRAM, ON THE BLESSEDNESS OF DIVINE LOVE by JOHN BYROM ON THE NATURALIZATION BILL: ADVERTISEMENT by JOHN BYROM WIRKUNG IN DER FERNE by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH |