But, O young poet, stay upon your round,
Your wandering feet beside a brother's tomb,
And gird your spirit up for slight and wound,
Lest, like the sleeper's, your soul sink in gloom.
A broken heart! ah, 'tis a bitter thing
To know the gentle in the world must die;
That man must steel his heart by force to wring
From his unfeeling fellow equity,
Or perish, name and fame, in calumny.
Each blessing has its bane, and thy complaining
Is that thy gifts are not unmixed with pain;
So finely strung thy heart-chords, some are straining,
And if they be but touched will snap in twain.
But oh, thy passionate love is not all slighted,
If from some heart o'erburdened like thine own—
Some fond, weak heart, by pain and passion blighted—
It wakes on chords long silent their last tone,
And brings back tears and gladness long unknown.
