One whom the poet's singing
Had lured from death,
Joy to the crusht soul bringing
And heaven's breath;
Came to him once in an hour
Of terror and stress,
And cried, "Thou alone hast power
To save me and bless;
Thou alone, pure heart and free,
Canst pluck from disaster,
If to a wretch like me
Thou wilt stoop, O master!"
Answered the bard with shame,
And sorrow and trembling:
"Was I false, was my song to blame?
Was my art dissembling?
I of all mortals the saddest,
The quickest to fall,
And song of mine highest and gladdest
Repentance all!"
BARDS
Some from books resound their rhymes—
Set them ringing with a faint,
Sorrowful, and sweet, and quaint
Memory of the olden times,
Like the sound of evening chimes.
Some go wandering on their way
Through the forest, past the herds,
Laughing maidens, singing birds;
On their sylvan lutes they play—
Danceth by the lyric Day!
