376 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
He hath enough who holds a gift so high, The good to cheer, the bad to purify.
The lyre is in itself a treasure
Of priceless value to the bard ; The artist's skill his wealth must measure ;
The song must be its own reward. They little know thy joys divine
That live for vanity's display ; Opinion makes their wealth, while thine
Man cannot give nor take away. Even kings themselves have begged a song of thee, To soothe the sense of the soul's poverty.
What though the scorn of senseless pride
Disdain thy poor and humble lot — Though fools thy sacred songs deride.
Nay, though by all mankind forgot ? Yon tuneful thrush no witness wants,
When his wild carols charm the glade ; If steps profane invade his haunts.
He wings his way to deeper shade, Where, all unseen within the gloomy wood. His plaintive song delights the savage solitude.
��THE POET.
Second Treatment.
a reproof of melancholy.
O thou that know'st with stately strain To soothe the restless hours of care !
Why waste thy skill on moanings vain ? Why wake the accents of despair .?
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