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Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page,
my name endear; And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust, Still hold communion with the wise and just ! Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource, When through the world it steals its secret course, Revive but once a generous wish supprest, Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest; In one good deed a fleeting hour employ, Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy; Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here.
207 . 209
The Boy of Egremond