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THE DIVER.
241
But, oh! the price of bitter tears,
Paid for the lonely power
That throws at last, o'er desert years,
A darkly-glorious dower!
Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strew'd;
—The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!
And who will think, when the strain is sung,
Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd,
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gush'd with every word?
None, none!—his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee;
—Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,
O wrestler with the sea!
L
