Page:Literary Souvenir 1831.pdf/8

They parted—she to early rest,
    And he to earn a name
A nation ranks amid her best,
    And gives, what they gave, fame:

Let no one deem, that vain regret
    Is in the peevish lays
Which say, too high a price is set
    Upon such hard-won praise.

Look on the wrong and littleness,
    The sorrow and the strife,
The hope, that every day makes less,
    Of literary life;

Look on the consciousness of power,
    The presence of despair,
The vision of the loftier hour,
    Broken by real care;

Even as the Jewish monarch fared,
    Who walked in joy or pain
Alternate, as sweet music shared
    The evil spirit's reign.

But what have we to do with this?
    Ours is that earlier time,
Ere the heart fevered for vain bliss,
    Or the lip spoke in rhyme.