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PREFACE.
14.
Though he may bid, with charmed voice,
His own wild heart be still,
And in lull’d silence sleep, his choice
It is not at his will.
His fate is song, and for that song
Doth glory track his way;
A thousand hearts to him belong,
Won by his gentle lay.
15.
’Tis his upon the landscape's bloom
A deeper spell to cast;
’Tis his, beside the ruined tomb,
To animate the past.
And let him think, if his own sphere
Too visionary seem,
Life’s dearest joy, and hope, and fear,
What are they each?—a dream.
Paris.L. E. L.
