Thou haggard! Poverty! whose  eye
Transforms young rapture to the pond'rous sigh;
In whose drear cave no Muse e'er struck the lyre,
Nor Bard e'er  with poetic fire;
Why all thy spells for CHATTERTON combine?
His thought  why must thou confine?
Subdu'd by thee, his pen no more obeys,
No longer gives the song of ancient days;
Nor paints in glowing tints from distant skies,
Nor bids  rush upon our eyes —
Check'd in her flight, his rapid genius cowers,
Drops her sad plumes, and yields to thee her powers.