THE POET T,yg
But leave these two, and courage to live free, That human life lose not its poetry !
Then, though each muse have hid her face,
The rosy hours, the days, the years, With a new joy shall run their race;
Grief shall almost forget her tears ; And Truth, and Love, and Liberty sublime, When the last Poet's runes have ceased to chime, With sweeter strains shall smooth the wrinkled brow of Time.
��THE POET.
Third Treatment.
wherein he boasts his destiny.
O thou with brows as black as night That hurriest 'mongst the busy throng,
Whose ear no music can delight,
Still following Mammon all day long,
Seeking for comfort out of care !
Thou still on sorrow's path dost press, Thinking to drive away despair
By an industrious idleness.
O son of strife ! Will ail this broil The joys or hours of life prolong ?
Thou canst not reach, with all thy toil. The raptures of my idlest song.
Born on misfortune's barren wild,
I'm happy, though my path be rough ;
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