341
The Poet's Destiny.
Dark is the soul of the Minstrel—
Wayward the flash of his eye;
The voice of the proud is against him,
The rude sons of earth pass him by.
Low is the grave of the Minstrel—
Ungraced by the chissel of art;
Yet his name will be blazoned for ever
On the best of all 'scutcheons—the heart!
Strong is the soul of the Minstrel—
He rules in a realm of his own;
His world is peopled by fancies
The noblest that ever were known.
Light is the rest of the Minstrel,
Though heavy his lot upon earth;
From the sward that lies over his ashes
Spring plants of a heavenly birth!
