envy not the poet's lot.
197
Thy christian memory, to all endeared,
Shall ever be remember'd and revered!
The widows' tears in sorrow may descend;
The fatherless have lost a matchless friend.
Yet, though the poor thy presence deeply miss,
Thine is a change to pure, immortal bliss.
Ah! then, since thou has gained eternal rest,
Twere selfish to regret thy spirit blest.
Shall ever be remember'd and revered!
The widows' tears in sorrow may descend;
The fatherless have lost a matchless friend.
Yet, though the poor thy presence deeply miss,
Thine is a change to pure, immortal bliss.
Ah! then, since thou has gained eternal rest,
Twere selfish to regret thy spirit blest.
Envy not the Poet's Lot.
Envy not the Poet's lot,
Though his pathway seemeth
Strewn with roses, and each spot
Bright as sunlight gleameth.
There's a thorn amid the flowers,
Which most deeply woundeth;
Oft when gladdest seem the bowers,
Sorrow most aboundeth.
Though his pathway seemeth
Strewn with roses, and each spot
Bright as sunlight gleameth.
There's a thorn amid the flowers,
Which most deeply woundeth;
Oft when gladdest seem the bowers,
Sorrow most aboundeth.
Covet not the starry wreath
Which the Poet weareth,
There is bitterness beneath,
Envy keen prepareth.
Deem not that each happy lay
Speaks a heart of gladness—
Oft his strains appear most gay
When his soul's all sadness.
Which the Poet weareth,
There is bitterness beneath,
Envy keen prepareth.
Deem not that each happy lay
Speaks a heart of gladness—
Oft his strains appear most gay
When his soul's all sadness.
