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envy not the poet's lot.
Sigh not for the Poet's breast
With its golden visions,
Still pursuing Hope's bright rest,
Finding still delusions.
Grasping at the shadowy thing,
Ever onward gaining,
Flinging glory from its wing,
Ne'er within attaining.
With its golden visions,
Still pursuing Hope's bright rest,
Finding still delusions.
Grasping at the shadowy thing,
Ever onward gaining,
Flinging glory from its wing,
Ne'er within attaining.
Yet whene'er the Poet's hands,
O'er the dear harp straying,
Music's soothing voice commands,
Sorrow's throbs allaying,
Not rich eastern diadems
In his eye appeareth
Half so glorious as the gems
Which his forehead weareth.
O'er the dear harp straying,
Music's soothing voice commands,
Sorrow's throbs allaying,
Not rich eastern diadems
In his eye appeareth
Half so glorious as the gems
Which his forehead weareth.
Nor would he his heart exchange,
With its fond confiding,
For the noblest in the range
Of deceit's residing.
Friends!—the few he values more
Than the glitt'ring shining
Of Peruvia's precious ore
In its seventh refining.
With its fond confiding,
For the noblest in the range
Of deceit's residing.
Friends!—the few he values more
Than the glitt'ring shining
Of Peruvia's precious ore
In its seventh refining.
Happy then the Poet's lot,
When his lyre he stringeth,
Though by heartless ones forgot,
Tried and true love clingeth.
When his lyre he stringeth,
Though by heartless ones forgot,
Tried and true love clingeth.
