HENCE care, and let me steep my drooping spirit In streams of poesy, or let me steer Imagination's bark 'mong bright scenes, where Mortals immortal fairy-land inherit. Ah me! that there should be so few to merit The realized hope of him, who deems In his youth's spring that life is what it seems, Till sorrows pierce his soul, and storms deter it From resting there as erst! Ye visions fair, Of Genius born, to you I turn, and flee Far from this world's ungenial apathy; Too blest, if but awhile I captive share The presence of such beings as engage The heart, and burn through Shakspeare's matchless page. |