Planet of bright but wayward destinies,
Thy votaries are thy victims; he who seeks
The laurel must essay a weary path;
Neglect will chill his best affections, or
Cold mockery will greet them. There are given
Rich gifts unto the bard; but, not content
With silent rapture, he must sun his wealth,
Show his hid treasures to the world, and then
The canker will consume them, and the fame
He fondly sought be bitterness of heart.
'Twas thus with the young Minstrel of this grove:
He sought to grasp an iris, beautiful
And of bright colours, but all formed of tears.
His memory lingers in this glen, for here
He caught the inspiration of the gale,
Singing its evening hymn, and worshipped
Like an idolater the morning star
He pass'd in early youth; his heart was as
A delicate flower, too soft to blossom long.
He sleeps where yon pale willow leans, and weeps
The morning dew above his quiet grave. L. E. L.
