And wanderest in the beam intense
Which turns the liquid air to gold.

The spirit's bright imaginings
Ne'er soar'd to loftier spheres than thee,
And if I had, thy fairy wings,
Afar from earthly haunts I'd flee.

Insipid are the weekly themes
Of ----'s imbecile review,
Whose page with adulation teems,
And makes me "beautifully blue."

But cockney praise is ebbing fast,
And Sappho's lute has lost its power,
And surely my career is past
Like Summer's brightest, loveliest flower.

Arcades ambo, Moore and me
Are Delia Crusca's sweetest doves,
And ours too is the poetry
Which meditative beauty loves.

Sweet bird, farewell! and be it thine
To thrill the blue air with thy song;
But fame will wreathe this brow of mine,
If I am right, and _Pope_ is wrong.

G.R.C.