Page:The songs that Quinte sang.djvu/76

72 There lived a poet once, a famous bard,
 * Whose muse, arrayed in robes of misty light,

Soared high above the common herd of men.
 * So high she soared, she almost passed from sight,

Even as the cold and brilliant stars of Heaven
 * That shine in chilly splendour from the skies

Withhold the radiance of their fairest beams
 * Beyond the naked sight of human eyes.

Still there are some pretentious ones who read
 * The mystic dreams and fancies of his brain,

Pedantic minds, who, understanding naught,
 * Would still have others think they grasp the strain,

Till, at some passage with strange meaning fraught,
 * Too subtle far for them to understand,

They pause perplexed, then as with one accord
 * Cry out in chorus: “How sublime and grand!”

O gifted bard! I would not try to pluck
 * One leaf from out thy laurel wreath of fame

Because I fail to grasp thy subtle thought;
 * ’Tis not in thee, but me, where lies the blame.

Around his tomb the world has bowed in grief,
 * And strewed his grave with bay and laurel leaf.

There lived and died a poet, years ago—
 * A hardy, humble ploughman of the soil

Who sang his heartfelt songs in simplest words
 * And earned his daily bread by humble toil.