Page:Literary Souvenir 1831.pdf/8

178

They parted—she to early rest, And he to earn a name A nation ranks amid her best, And gives, what they gave, fame:

Let no one deem, that vain regret Is in the peevish lays Which say, too high a price is set Upon such hard-won praise.

Look on the wrong and littleness, The sorrow and the strife, The hope, that every day makes less, Of literary life;

Look on the consciousness of power, The presence of despair, The vision of the loftier hour, Broken by real care;

Even as the Jewish monarch fared, Who walked in joy or pain Alternate, as sweet music shared The evil spirit's reign.

But what have we to do with this? Ours is that earlier time, Ere the heart fevered for vain bliss, Or the lip spoke in rhyme.