The becoming of a poet,not a mediocre bard;
Whistling low love songs into the sunset,
Revile Youth in self-righteous lines in bold
And seek the eagle`s view like a preacher upright.
Too much knowledge in a mind seeking voice;
The hoarse guttural-trumpet in dirges,
And many sophistries inclined to be true-
Wears the mind rough in tumult realms.
Ah!The harmonious pose of Nature`s beauty;
The picturesque grandeur I cannot sing,
Rather to be constrained in this hollowity
Breathing my empty native air with no spring.
With sunset o`r verses to Time bow
The present mediocrity in trumpery-dew.
