Page:Poet Lore, volume 27, 1916.djvu/741



Whoever plays with golden strings, Him honor more than thyself even; For know that God did love thee so, He needs must send him thee from heaven.

’Tis terrible when plague and want To God’s chastisement must belong; Of punishments the greatest though, Is when a nation lacks in song.

That race indeed has yet to die, That had its prophets still to sing; And every song that’s born in heaven In even death new life doth bring.

Cast ye not stones at your prophets, For like the birds bards are alone: They never will return to him Who casts at them a stone. A nation seeks God’s punishment When unrevered its bards it wrongs; And direst is the curse of God, Whenever he withdraws his songs.

A poet’s heart is truly pure, And likewise from all wrath apart And from his heart whate’er he sings, That carry thou within thy heart.

A hundred years passed ’ere I came Upon the grave that once was mine; The sexton sang my song and piled My bones with others in that shrine.