Few lov’d the youthful bard, for he was one
Whose face, tho’ with intelligence it beam’d,
Was ever sad; if with a smile it gleam’d
It was but momentary, like the sun
Darting one bright ray thro’ the thunder cloud--
He lov’d the secret vale, and not the crowd
And hum of populous cities--some would say
There was a secret labouring in his breast,
That made him cheerless and disturb’d his rest;
Whose influence sad he could not drive away.
What caused the young bard’s woe was never known,
Yet, once, a wanderer deem’d an hapless flame
Consum’d his life away, for one, whose name
He heard him breathe, upon the mountains lone!