Page:Poems of Nature and Life.djvu/386

 376 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE

He hath enough who holds a gift so high, The good to cheer, the bad to purify.

The lyre is in itself a treasure

Of priceless value to the bard ; The artist's skill his wealth must measure ;

The song must be its own reward. They little know thy joys divine

That live for vanity's display ; Opinion makes their wealth, while thine

Man cannot give nor take away. Even kings themselves have begged a song of thee, To soothe the sense of the soul's poverty.

What though the scorn of senseless pride

Disdain thy poor and humble lot — Though fools thy sacred songs deride.

Nay, though by all mankind forgot ? Yon tuneful thrush no witness wants,

When his wild carols charm the glade ; If steps profane invade his haunts.

He wings his way to deeper shade, Where, all unseen within the gloomy wood. His plaintive song delights the savage solitude.

��THE POET.

Second Treatment.

a reproof of melancholy.

O thou that know'st with stately strain To soothe the restless hours of care !

Why waste thy skill on moanings vain ? Why wake the accents of despair .?

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