Proud of our lyric galaxy, I hear
Of faded Genius with supreme disdain;
As when we see the miser bend insane
O’er his full coffers, and in accents drear
Deplore imagin’d want;—and thus appear
To me those moody censors, who complain,
As Shaftsbury plain’d in a now boasted reign,
That “Poesy had left our darken’d sphere.”
Whence may the present stupid dream be traced
That now she shines not as in days foregone?
Perchance neglected, often shine in waste
Her Lights, from number into confluence run,
More than when, thinly in th’ horizon placed,
Each orb shone separate, and appear’d a sun.