That only Youth, whose sweetly-flowing lays,
Resembling your's, deserve the second praise,
Dwelt near this place--or memory I lack--
Yes! now I recollect--five summers back,
When to these parts for harvest-work I came,
How all the fields resounded with his fame.
The Bard I ne'er beheld; but heard the swains
Still, with delight, repeat his peerless strains:
Not less by Fortune, than the Muses, blest,
No cares of life disturb'd his peaceful breast;
For poesy alone his happy soul possest.
Did you not know that youth?