Ask, mournful Muse, by one alone inspired:
What change? am I less fond, or thou less fair?
Or is it, that thy mounting soul is tired
Of duteous homage and religious care?
So many court thee that my reverent gaze
Vexes that wilful and capricious eye;
Such fine rare flatteries flow to thee, that praise,
From one whose thoughts thou know'st, seems poor
and dry.
So must it be. Thus monarchs blandly greet
Strange heralds offering tribute, and forget
The vassals ranked behind the golden seat,
Whose annual gift is counted as a debt.
Since sure of me thy liegeman once in thrall
Thou need'st not waste on me those gracious looks.
Stirred by the newborn wish to conquer all,
Leave thy first subject to his rhymes and books.
Ah! those impetuous claims that drew me forth
From my cold shadows to thy dazzling day,
Those spells that lured me to the stately North,
Those pleas against my scruples, where are they?
Oh, glorious bondage in a dreamful bower!
Oh, freedom thrice abhorred, unblest release!
Why, why hath cruel circumstance the power
To make such worship, such obedience cease?
Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm
Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine,
Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm
Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine.
If thine no more, if lightly left behind,
To guard the dancing clusters thought unmeet,
It is because with gilded trellis twined
Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat.
Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun,
Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze
Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one
Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees.
Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift;
And humbly marvelling at thy former choice
A head once crowned with love I dare uplift,
And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice.