HAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILY While on my heart the worms consuming prey'd Of Love, and I with all his fire was caught; The steps of my fair wild one still I sought To trace o'er desert mountains as she stray'd; And much I dared in bitter strains to upbraid Both Love and her, whom I so cruel thought; But rude was then my genius, and untaught My rhymes, while weak and new the ideas play'd. Dead is that fire; and cold its ashes lie In one small tomb; which had it still grown on E'en to old age, as oft by others felt, Arm'd with the power of rhyme, which wretched I E'en now disclaim, my riper strains had won E'en stones to burst, and in soft sorrows melt. Anon., Ox., 1795.