Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart: 
    On him who gains thy praise,
  Pointless must fall the Spectre’s dart,
    Consumed in glory’s blaze;
  But me she beckons from the earth,
  My name obscure, unmark’d my birth,
    My life a short and vulgar dream: 
  Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
  My hopes recline within a shroud,
    My fate is Lethe’s stream.

  When I repose beneath the sod,
    Unheeded in the clay,
  Where once my playful footsteps trod,
    Where now my head must lay;
  The meed of pity will be shed
  In dew-drops o’er my narrow bed,
    By nightly skies and storms alone;
  No mortal eye will deign to steep
  With tears the dark sepulchral deep
    Which hides a name unknown.

  Forget this world, my restless sprite,
    Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven;
  There must thou soon direct thy flight,
    If errors are forgiven,
  To bigots and to sects unknown,
  Bow down beneath the Almighty’s Throne;
    To Him address thy trembling prayer: 
  He who is merciful and just,
  Will not reject a child of dust,
    Although his meanest care.

  Father of Light! to Thee I call,
    My soul is dark within;
  Thou, who canst mark the sparrow’s fall,
    Avert the death of sin. 
  Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
  Who calms’t the elemental war,
    Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
  My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
  And, since I soon must cease to live,
    Instruct me how to die.

1807. [Now first published.]

    [4] Harrow.

    [5] The river Grete at Southwell.

    [6] Mary Duff.

    [7] Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

  Thou power! who hast ruled me through infancy’s days,
    Young offspring of Fancy, ’tis time we should part,
  Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
    The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

  This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
    Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
  The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
    Are wafted far distant on Apathy’s wing.

  Though simple the themes of my rude flowing lyre,
    Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
  No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
    My visions are flown, to return—­alas, never!

  When drain’d is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
    How vain is the effort delight to prolong! 
  When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
    What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

  Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
    Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? 
  Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? 
    Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.