Page:Poems Craik.djvu/144

Never! Sing, bird-poet mine,
 As most poets do;—
Guessing by an instinct fine
At some happiness divine
 Which they never knew.
Lonely in a prison bright
Hymning for the world's delight.

Yet, my birdie, you 're content
 In your tiny cage:
Not a carol thence is sent
But for happiness is meant—
 Wisdom pure as sage:
Teaching, the true poet's part
Is to sing with merry heart.

So, lie down thou peevish pen,
 Eyes, shake off all tears;
And my wee bird, sing again:
I '11 translate your song to men
 In these future years.
"Howsoe'er thy lot 's assigned,
Bear it with a cheerful mind."