350 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
Must deem the bard's, the hero's bays,
Compared with truth, a worthless prize, And scorn the breath of human praise
Where self to self applause denies, O, child of genius, at what price
Thou buildest upon empty sound ! Rather let cold oblivion's ice
Congeal me nameless in the ground. Than that ambition should prefer a tear To reverence mute wrested from minds severe.
Speak, generous bard of Ayr, and say.
Did those sweet lines with truth agree,3° Which said. Heaven's light could lead astray ?
Was heavenly light thus false to thee? Where, by old Dumfries' hallowed fane.
Thy mouldering bones the cold sods press. Thou sayest — nor be the warning vain ! —
'* The bane of genius is excess ; But who casts stones at me ? " Ah, judgment halts, And bids me love thee still, whate'er thy faults, —
Nor join that cold and heartless band
Who scorn thy sweet and simple rhymes, And thank the Almighty that they stand
Convicted but of lawful crimes. They only steal the poor man's bread.
Or lick the filthy feet of power, Unhouse the friendless orphan's head.
And rob the widow of her dower. Yes, watchful Fame brings genius' faults to light, While mean men's crimes oblivion hides in night.
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