May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.