The swell and glitter of this stately stave
Are tinsel trappings of but little worth;
So poor they sometimes move my bitter mirth
When to the common eye they look most brave.
In vain around thy vital charms I wave
My peacock plumes; or with the flowers of earth
Deck thy young brow; or in my generous dearth
Hang crowns of laurel on thy very grave.
Oh! barren Art! Oh! fancy, bankrupt quite!
In what sad colors is that pomp arrayed
Which starts and trembles at the coming night!
What have I done, for all I have essayed,
But made a little ring of flickering light
That, in a moment, passes into shade?