How charmed is the eye, which in Summer reposes On this haunt of the Poet, o'ershadowed with roses! I'll in and be seated — to try, if thus placed, I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste, Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain, Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain. Well, now I am fairly install'd in the bower, How lovely the scene! how propitious the hour! The breeze is perfumed, from the hawthorn it stirs, All is silent around me — but nothing occurs, Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here, and alone— Not a chance of a couplet that ROGERS would own; Though my senses are enraptured, my feelings in tune, And HOLLAND'S my host, and the season is June; Enough of my trials, nor garden, nor grove, Though poets amidst them, may linger or rove, Nor a seat e'en so hallow'd as this, can impart The fancy and fire, that must spring from the heart. So I rise, since the Muses continue to frown, No more of a poet, than when I sat down; While ROGERS, on whom they look kindly, can strike Their lyre, in all times, and all places alike. June 2, 1818.
