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It is a fearful stake the poet casts, When he comes forth from his sweet solitude Of hopes, and songs, and visionary things, To ask the iron verdict of the world. Till then his home has been in fairyland, Sheltered in the sweet depths of his own heart; But the strong need of praise impels him forth; For never was there poet but he craved The golden sunshine of secure renown. That sympathy which is the life of fame, It is full dearly bought: henceforth he lives Feverish and anxious, in an unkind world, That only gives the laurel to the grave.

was glad when he found himself in the open air, and with an object before him in which he was keenly interested. It is the mind ill at ease that seeks for excitement, and Courtenaye found in himself a craving for any amusement that, even for a short time, carried