Sonnet XXI

Proud of our lyric Galaxy, I hear

Of faded Genius with supreme disdain;

As when we see the Miser bend insane

O'er his full coffers, and in accents drear

Deplore imagin'd want;—and thus appear

To me those moody Censors, who complain,

As Shaftsbury plain'd in a now boasted reign,

That “Poesy had left our darken'd sphere.”

Whence may the present stupid dream be traced

That now she shines not as in days foregone?

Perchance neglected, often shine in waste

Her Lights, from number into confluence run,

More than when thinly in th' horizon placed

Each Orb shone separate, and appear'd a Sun.