NOT that I, once, in thy paternal shade,
The golden minutes snatch'd of transient joy,
Nor, yet, that thy sweet song would fondly aid,
With softest sympathy, the minstrel-boy,

Do I exalt the artless voice of praise;
Since each poetic eye, tho' low the theme,
Must catch the lustre of these orient rays,
That tenderly illume thy raptur'd dream:

Tho' much luxuriant Fancy has improv'd
My worth obscure, yet deem me not so cold,
That flatt'ry soothes me not from lips belov'd:
Lorn Anguish still my conscious heart may hold,

And yet its pulse in thy effulgence play,
As frost-work, glist'ning melts, before the eye of day.