To the Countess of Blessington

You have ask’d for a verse:–the request In a rhymer ’twere strange to deny; But my Hippocrene was but my breast, And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. Were I now as I was, I had sung What Lawrence has painted so well; But the strain would expire on my tongue, And the theme is too soft for my shell. I am ashes where once I was fire, And the bard in my bosom is dead; What I loved I now merely admire, And my heart is as grey as my head. My life is not dated by years– There are moments which act as plough; And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow. Let the young and the brilliant aspire To sing what I gaze on in vain; For sorrow has torn from my lyre The string which was worthy the strain.