Not in the shades of Academic bowers,
Nor yet in classic haunts, where every breeze
Wakes with its whispers music among trees,
And breathes the fragrance of unnumber'd flowers,
Has it been mine to nurse my minstrel powers.
Nor have I, lull'd in literary ease,
Dreamt of ascending, even by slow degrees,
The glittering steep where Fame's proud temple towers.
Yet have I been at times a listener
To them whose hallow'd harps are now suspended
In silence! and have ventured to prefer
A prayer in which both hope and fear were blended,
That I might rank their fellow-worshipper
In the esteem of some, when life is ended.