Typed out from Landon - Poems from Annuals by F. J. Sypher
THE LYRIST
The laurel-wreath is round thine hair,
Maid of the brow divine;
Immortal as the stars, how proud
A destiny is thine!
Thy thoughts are burning on thy cheek,
And to thine eye is given
The glory of that inward light
Which is direct from heaven.
Sweep, maiden, sweep thy glorious lyre,
And let its chords express
All that they dream,—of lofty deed,
And meekest tenderness.
’Tis noon: the Summer loveliness
Should speak unto my heart,—
The maiden bowed her laurelled head,
“In such I have no part;”
A while ago you might have said,
Joy in the sunlight hour;
As flowers, my feelings would have sprung,
Beneath such genial power.
But when those flowers have been checked,
By cold North wind and rain,
Oh, never more will they expand,
In light and bloom, again!
The poet’s is a doomed lot,
And heavy to be borne;—
When one half of his fame is won,
From mockery and scorn.
If right I read the poet’s mind,
’Tis delicate as wild,
Lovely, unreal, sensitive,
And simple as a child;
’Tis as a lute, which a light touch
Into sweet music wakes,
But whose fine chords are slight as fine;—
’Neath the rough hand, it breaks.
Or, if its native strength resists,
It catches the rude tone,
And, harsh and tuneless, loses all
The sweetness—once its own.
Aye, fame is glorious, while, starlike,
It shines in its far birth;
But, like that star, its glory fades,
When once it touches earth.
