On Samuel Rogers' Seat in the Garden at Holland House

How happily shelter'd is he who reposes
In this haunt of the poet, o'ershadow'd with roses,
While the sun is rejoicing, unclouded, on high,
And summer's full majesty reigns in the sky!
Let me in, and be seated. — I'll try if, thus placed,
I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste,
Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain,
Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain.
Well — now I am fairly install'd in the bower,
How lovely the scene! How propitious the hour!
The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs;
All is beauty around me; — but nothing occurs.
Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here and alone.
Not a line can I hit on, that Rogers would own.
Though my senses are ravish'd, my feelings in tune.
And Holland's my host, and the season is June.
The trial is ended. Nor garden, nor grove,
Though poets amid them may linger or rove,
Nor a seat e'en so hallow'd as this can impart
The fancy and fire that must spring from the heart.
So I rose, since the Muses continue to frown.
No more of a poet than when I sat down;
While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can strike
Their lyre, at all times, in all places, alike.