Poems (Charlotte Allen)/The Poet's Lot

by Charlotte Allen

THE POET'S LOT.

Oh, would'st thou know the-poet's lot,
 Their hopes, with all their fears,
The changing glow, the burning pulse,
 Tempered with sighs and tears.

Though flowers may seem to deck their path,
 And sunshine gild each hour,
Yet clouds will often on them press,
 And thorns make known their power.

They 're apt to cherish hopes that cheat,
And when their hearts beat high,
They find, alas! what promised bright,
 Was not too bright to die.

And though they nurture in the breast,
 Feelings, the warmest kind;
Yet are they doomed to feel the breath
 Of censure touch their mind.

They often sacrifice the bliss,
 That Fortune's favorites share,
And in unheeded solitude,
 Her proud, cold frowns must bear.

Pretended friends may chant their praise,
 If wealthy they but seem;
Yet turn the scale, sans riches they,
 And friendship 's then a dream.

But friendship is not always false,
 There 's one that ne'er deceives;
For ages past, the poet's friend,
 Which every bard believes.

From Homer, Virgil, Milton's birth,
 Down to the present day,
The "rhyming race" acknowledge him,
 To hold resistless sway.

That constant friend, both firm and true,
 To each good hearted poet,
Is Poverty! and every one
 That ever rhymed, must know it.