XIV.
Come then, my friends, and whether 'neath the load
Of heavy griefs ye struggle on, or whether
Your better destiny shall strew the road
With flowers, and golden fruits that cannot wither,
United let us move, still forward striving;
So while we live shall joy our days illume,
And in our children's hearts our love surviving
Shall gladden them, when we are in the tomb.
TO THE KIND READER.
No one talks more than a poet;
Fain he'd have the people know it.
Praise or blame he ever loves;
None in prose confess an error,
Yet we do so, void of terror,
In the Muses' silent groves.
What I erred in, what corrected,
What I suffered, what effected,
To this wreath as flowers belong;
For the aged and the youthful.
And the vicious and the truthful,
All are fair when viewed in song.
SOUND, SWEET SONG.
Sound, sweet song, from some far land.
Sighing softly close at hand,
Now of joy, and now of woe!
Stars are wont to glimmer so.
Sooner thus will good unfold;
Children young and children old
Gladly hear thy numbers flow.
