THE POET 375
At last may thank thee for thine aid. Not now, O come not yet, fair maid ! But, when I shall grow weak and old, And in my veins the blood runs cold, And, long secluded from delight, I shall have learned to read aright In Wisdom's book, — become so wise That marvels can no more surprise, Still following Truth in all her range, Till nought in Nature shall seem strange, — Then, Fancy, once again I'll woo thee. More warmly that I need not rue thee ! When I, in Learning's cause grown gray, No more shall fear to go astray. And thou, in sage Experience' school, Shalt have forgot to play the fool. Firm friends once more, I in thy once loved bowers Again will pluck the long neglected flowers. And with thy sparkling cup cheer worn-out life's last hours.
��THE POET.
First Treatment.
the love of art rewards the pursuit of it.
Guest of the gods ! Men say thy lot
Was ever hard and friendless found, Doomed on that earth to dwell forgot
Which thou hast made all hallowed ground — As if the debt men owe thy strains
In gold or praises can be paid ! Thy music falls like freshening rains,
Or sunlight in the forest shade.
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