To the Countess of Blessington

You have asked for a verse:—the requestIn a rhymer 'twere strange to deny;But my Hippocrene was but my breast,And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

Were I now as I was, I had sungWhat Lawrence has painted so well;But the strain would expire on my tongue,And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,And the bard in my bosom is dead;What I loved I now merely admire,And my heart is as grey as my head.

My Life is not dated by years—There are moments which act as a plough,And there is not a furrow appearsBut is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspireTo sing what I gaze on in vain;For Sorrow has torn from my lyreThe string which was worthy the strain.

B.