In knightly hall, or lady's bow'r,
Erewhile, the vocal wire was strung;
And many a laurel, many a flow'r,
Round the sweet Minstrel's harp was hung;

Graceful array'd in flowing stole
Of green, with tissued roses wove,
His ardor warm'd th' heroic soul,
His softness sooth'd disastrous love;

Mid harmony's responsive hoard,
His cunning fingers featly caught
Each sound, that rapture might afford,
Or lift sublime the towering thought.

Yet oft to shun the garish beam,
Mid the deep desert would he stray,
And following quick some haunted stream,
Oft wander from the world away:

Stretch'd, listless, on the headlong steep,
Oft would he gaze the scene below,
The painted cloud, the toiling deep,
The purple heath, with golden glow!

And oft, in silent transport laid,
'Till the shrill curfew struck his ear,
Has Twilight don'd her checquer'd shade,
And Darkness veil'd him, musing there.

But yet no fear, mid wild forlorn,
The Bard should seek a savage bed,
Some hermit, at his glad return,
The pillow blest that lap'd his head.

Of hateful penury no fear,
The Poet still a welcome found:
The peasant prest his homely cheer,
And magic song the banquet crown'd.

Gay as the little birds, that fly,
All devious, thro' the tangled wood,
To whom boon Nature's stores supply
Their vernal couch, their simple food!

Ah me! those happy days are past,
And alter'd sore his heavy fate,
By each rude vassal's scoff disgrac'd,
And banish'd from the lordly gate;

Yet nought of Heav'n illumes that heart,
That deals it's tuneful servant wrong,
Nor aught of bliss can wealth impart
To him, who slights the honied song;

For, sure, of Heav'n that purer flame,
That hath his polish'd mind possest,
And sure, from source caelestial, came
The sunshine that pervades his breast.

Then, nobles, deign, and barons bold,
To rear the glory of your land,
And when true genius you behold,
Confess th' Almighty Master's hand;

Nor dazzling gem on Beauty's brow,
Nor titled Grandeur's garter'd shine,
Can aught so passing bright bestow
Oh, Genius , as thy splendid line!