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And who may know how sad and how subdued,
When with its own o'ertasking, faint and weary,
The mind sinks down into that gloomy mood,
To which all future hours seem dark and dreary.
The soul is out of tune—its sweet notes scattered,
Vexed, irritable, harsh, its power is flown;
Like some fine lute, whose higher chords are shattered,
By forcing too much music from their tone.
But few can pity such a mood as this,
Because they know it not,—calm is their sadness;
Tranquil their joy, they dream not how it is,
Genius is feverish in its grief and gladness.
It has no quiet, for it could not live
In the far sunlight of some placid ocean;
It asks the warring winds and waves that give
Need for its strength, and life to its emotion.
And then it suffers bitterly, consuming
With the fierce struggle which itself hath sought;
While fame, the future's mighty world illuming,
Is never wholly by the present bought.
Fame is a noble vision, fixed for ever;
Praise is its mockery; for one word of praise
A thousand come, of blame for each endeavour
That turns the mind's pure light on coming days.
All daily ills beset its daily path,
Poverty, toil, neglect, dislike, and sorrow;
The many visit it with scorn and wrath,
Its hopes come never nearer than the morrow.
Vainly did he resist, half mirth, half rage,
The weight with which the world on genius presses;
What bitter truths are flung upon his page,
Truths which the lip denies, the heart confesses.
Life is a fable, with its lesson last,
Genius too has its fable and its moral;
Of all the trees that down their shadows cast,
Choose you a wreath from any but the laurel.
