Mr Vignoles

The Dying Swan

To each sweet Muse, a long farewell to pay,
The poet weaves his tributary lay;
Other pursuits demand his every care,
And, with regret, he quits those scenes so fair,
Where erst he tuned his lyre to feeble lays,
And hoped, presumptuous bard! for Attic Praise.
No longer will he listen with delight,
To strains that genius dictates, ladies write;
No more when love the theme, will pensive sighs,
Himself scarce conscious, from his bosom rise;
Nor as alternate the inspired line,
Or droop with grief, or with resentment shine,
Shall the emotions of his soul confess,
The magic power of the poetess!