But endless spring, the Poet’s breast shall prove,
Whose Genius kindles at the torch of Love.
For him, unfading blooms the fertile mind,
The current of the heart for ever flows;
Fearless, his bosom braves the wintry wind,
While thro’ each nerve eternal summer glows;
In vain would chilling APATHY controul
The lambent fires that warm the lib’ral soul.
To me, the limpid brook the painted mead,
The crimson dawn, the twilight’s purple close,