A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.
105
How every victor's crown is lined with thorns,
And worn mid scoffs! Trace the young poet's fate:
Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams,
His heart upon his lips, he seeks the world,
To find him fame and fortune, as if life
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led
The way before him; flatteries fill his ear,
His presence courted, and his words are caught;
And he seems happy in so many friends.
What marvel if he somewhat overrate
His talents and his state? These scenes soon change.
The vain, who sought to mix their name with his;
The curious, who but live for some new sight;
The idle,—all these have been gratified,
And now neglect stings even more than scorn.
Envy has spoken, felt more bitterly,
