You say you're glad I write — oh, say not so!
My fount of song, dear friend,‘ s a bitter well;
And when the numbers freely from it flow,
‘ Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.
Castalia, fam'd of yore,— the spring divine,
Apollo's smile upon its current wears:
Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,
To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.