In days of old, ere charm’d at length to rest

Stern Chivalry her idle spear uphung,

Sweet mid loud arms the Minstrel’s music rung;

In each proud castle, at the gorgeous feast,

Mix’d with bold Chiefs he sat, an honour’d guest;

Cheer’d with the genial rites, his lyre he strung,

War, Love, the Wizard, and the Fay he sung,

And fir’d with rapture each impassion’d breast:

Such were the strains, which in her livelier prime

Bright Fancy pour’d; but ah! they’re heard no more!

Yet is not Genius dead: the song sublime

Might burst in tides as copious as of yore;

But WANT, grim Monster, checks the raging rhyme,

And damps the Poet’s wing outstretch’d to soar.