Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/327

318

In yon wide world, what wilt thou find? What all find—toil and care: Your flowers you have left behind Far other weight to bear. The heavy bridge confines your stream, Through which the barges toil, Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam, Thy waves have caught the soil. On—on—though weariness it be, By shoal and barrier cross'd, Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea, And there art wholly lost. Bend thou, young poet, o'er the stream— Such fate will be thine own; Thy lute's hope is a morning dream, And when have dreams not flown?