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And thou wilt be the thing the crowd

Will worship, cringe to, and obey.

But look thou upon Nature's face,

As the young poet loves to look ; And lean thou where the willow leans,

O'er the low murmur of the brook ;

Or worship thou the midnight sky,

In silence at its moonlit hour ; Or let a single tear confess

The silent spell of music's power ;

Or love, or feel, or let thy soul

Be for one moment pure or free, Then shrink away at once from life,

Its path will be no more for thee.

Pour forth thy fervid soul in song

There are some that may praise thy lays ; But of all earth's dim vanities,

The very earthliest is praise.

Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves

Around the Poet's temples hung, How turn'd to gall, and how profaned

By envious or by idle tongue !

Given by vapid fools, who laud

Only if others do the same; Forgotten even while the breath

Is on the air that bears your name.

And he! what was his fate, the bard

He of the Desert Harp, whose song Flow'd freely, wildly, as the wind

That bore him and his harp along?

That fate which waits the gifted one,

To pine, each finer impulse check'd; At length to sink, and die beneath

The shade and silence of neglect.

And this the polish'd age, that springs

The phoenix from dark years gone by, That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves

Her warrior and her bard to die.

To die in poverty and pride,

The light of hope and genius past, Each feeling wrung, until the heart

Could bear no more, so broke at last.

Thus withering amid the wreck

Of sweet hopes, high imaginings, What can the Minstrel do, but die,

Cursing his too beloved strings !



I saw thee wedded :—thou didst go

Within the sacred aisle ;
Thy young cheek in a' blushing glow,

Betwixt a tear and smile,

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Thy heart was glad in maiden glee ;
But he it loved so fervently

Was faithless all the while :
I hate him for the vow he spoke-
I hate him for the vow he broke!

I hid the love that could not die

Its doubts, and hopes, and fears ; And buried all my misery

In secrecy and tears.
And days pass'd on--and thou didst prove
The pangs of unrequited love,

Even in thy early years :
And thou didst die--so fair and good
In silence and in solitude.

While thou wert living I did hide

Affection's secret pains ;
I'd not have shock'd thy modest pride

For all the world contains :
But thou hast perish'd and the fire,
That, often check'd, could ne'er expire,

Again unbidden reigas ;-
It is no crime to speak my vow,
For, ah ! thou canst not hear it now.

Thou sleep'st beneath thy lowly stone

That dark and dreamless sleep ;
And he, thy loved and chosen one,

Why goes he not to weep?
He does not kneel where I have knelt ;
He cannot feel what I have felt

The anguish still and deep

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