Literary Gazette, 27th April, 1822, Page 264
THE POET.
Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre,
That the Minstrel will feign what he never has felt;
Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire,
Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt.
It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray
Of sunset can image the soul of the bard;
The light of the evening around them may play,
But the frost-work beneath is, tho' bright, cold and hard.
’Tis the burning volcano, that ceaselessly glows,
Where the Minstrel [1]may find his own semblance pourtray'd;
The red fires that gleam on the summit are those
That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed.
Ah, deeply the Minstrel has felt all he sings,
Every passion he paints his own bosom has known;
No note of wild music is swept from the strings,
But first his own feelings have echoed the tone.
Then say not his love is a fugitive fire,
That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame;
Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre;
The pulse of the heart and the harp are the same.
L. E. L.
- ↑ Minstre in the original is taken as a misprint
