With lackeys mounted, ready on the lawn: 
The ladies came; and John in terror threw
One painful glance, and then his eyes withdrew;
Not with such speed, but he in other eyes
With anguish read—­“I pity, but despise —
Unhappy boy!—­presumptuous scribbler!—­you,
To dream such dreams!—­be sober, and adieu!”
   Then came the Noble Friend—­“And will my Lord
Vouchsafe no comfort; drop no soothing word? 
Yes, he must speak;” he speaks, “My good young friend,
You know my views; upon my care depend;
My hearty thanks to your good father pay,
And be a student.—­Harry, drive away.” 
   Stillness reign’d all around; of late so full
The busy scene, deserted now and dull: 
Stern is his nature who forbears to feel
Gloom o’er his spirits on such trials steal;
Most keenly felt our poet as he went
From room to room without a fix’d intent;
“And here,” he thought, “I was caress’d; admired
Were here my songs; she smiled, and I aspired. 
The change how grievous!” As he mused, a dame
Busy and peevish to her duties came;
Aside the tables and the chairs she drew,
And sang and mutter’d in the poet’s view:  —
“This was her fortune; here they leave the poor;
Enjoy themselves, and think of us no more;
I had a promise”—­here his pride and shame
Urged him to fly from this familiar dame;
He gave one farewell look, and by a coach
Reach’d his own mansion at the night’s approach. 
   His father met him with an anxious air,
Heard his sad tale, and check’d what seem’d despair: 
Hope was in him corrected, but alive;
My lord would something for a friend contrive;
His word was pledged:  our hero’s feverish mind
Admitted this, and half his grief resigned: 
But, when three months had fled, and every day
Drew from the sickening hopes their strength away,
The youth became abstracted, pensive, dull;
He utter’d nothing, though his heart was full;
Teased by inquiring words and anxious looks,
And all forgetful of his Muse and books;
Awake he mourn’d, but in his sleep perceived
A lovely vision that his pain relieved:  —
His soul, transported, hail’d the happy seat,
Where once his pleasure was so pure and sweet;
Where joys departed came in blissful view
Till reason waked, and not a joy he knew. 
   Questions now vex’d his spirit, most from those
Who are call’d friends, because they are not foes: 
“John?” they would say; he, starting, turn’d around,
“John!” there was something shocking in the sound: 
Ill brook’d he then the pert familiar phrase,
The untaught freedom and th’ inquiring gaze;
Much was his temper touch’d, his spleen provoked,
When ask’d how ladies talk’d, or walk’d, or look’d? 
“What said my Lord of politics! how spent
He there his time? and was he glad he went?”
   At length a letter came, both cool and brief,
But still it gave the burden’d heart relief: