To a Reformer.

'Tis vain to urge the lofty enterprise;
We turn dejected to our books again
Where, dry as dust each inspiration dies.
It is in vain.

No cool sequestered path brings thoughts in train
For carnival, clad in enchanting guise;
No pleasaunce, for our sorrow, doth remain
Where we wander, with enraptured eyes.
Into forgotten hoards with touch profane
The ruthless finger of instruction pries;
And the dread thought that is our yearly bane
Dispels the glamour of our summer skies.
Strive not to start ambition forth again,
Dream not that at thy words our hopes can rise :
It is in vain

___"E."