172
DESILLUSION.
THE POET'S DESTINY.
HE Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One,Through the wide world passes the Poet on.
All that is noble by his word is crown'd,
But on his brow th' Acanthus wreath is bound.
Eternal temples rise beneath his hand,
While his own griefs are written in the sand;
He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine—
But others wear the flowers, drink the wine;
He plunges in the depths of life to seek
Rich joys for other hearts-his own may break.
Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies,
He flings the pearl upon the shore—and dies;
DÉSILLUSION.
OO soon, alas! too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang,And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly sang.
Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature's inmost soul,
Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet's words unroll.
Cold and spiritless and silent—yea, with scorn received they me,
Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath'd the laurel crown I see.
And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow,
I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe.
But, courage! years may pass—this mortal frame be laid in earth,
But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth!
