Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/68

Rh

Oh vain! for not with such can be One trace of his divinity. Ever from poet's lute hath flown The sweetness of its early tone, When from its wild flight it hath bow'd, To seek for homage mid the crowd; Be the one wonder of the night, As if the soul could be a sight; As all his burning numbers speak Were written upon brow and cheek; And he forsooth must learn its part, Must choose his words, and school his heart To one set mould, and pay again Flattery with flattery as vain; Till, mixing with the throng too much, The cold, the vain, he feels as such;