Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/24

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Bethought the countess of a tale Connected with the lonely vale; Some bard, who died before his fame; Whose songs remain'd, but not his name: It told his tomb was by the wave, In life his haunt, in death his grave. Sadly she mused upon the fate That still too often must await The gifted hand which shall awake The poet's lute, and for its sake All but its own sweet self resign,— Thou loved lute! to be only thine. For what is genius, but deep feeling Waken'd by passion to revealing? And what is feeling, but to be Alive to every misery,