WHEN summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled, And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed, Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, And simpler beauties deck the withering plain. And thus when Verse her wint'ry prospect weeps, When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps, When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar, And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more, An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites, Who led by hope and inclination writes: With half their art, he tries the soul to move, And swell the softer strain with themes of love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER by ROBERT BROWNING A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 2 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE IDLE SINGER: REACTION by QUINTIN BONE LITTLEHOLME; FOR J.S. AND A.W.S. by GORDON BOTTOMLEY TO MY HONOURED FRIEND MR. DRAYTON; AFFIXED TO 'POLYOLBION' by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE MAN; ADDRESSED TO MY ALMA MATER by SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE |