On Leven's banks bright shone a laurell'd Bard, Whose soul the Muse's loftier spirit shar'd; Ambition's slave who still abhorred to yield, And Independence follow'd to the field; With him undaunted rov'd from clime to clime, Sounded his praise in matchless verse sublime. But chill Necessity soon checked his strain, Drove him for ever from thy hallowed fane. With tresses torn thy choir his fate bewail'd, Yet nought their love or piteous plaint avail'd; Then no Maecenas listened to their moan, Or stretch'd his hand to prop thy falling throne.
