Poems (Douglas)/Envy not the Poet's Lot
Envy not the Poet's Lot.
Envy not the Poet's lot, Though his pathway seemethStrewn with roses, and each spot Bright as sunlight gleameth.There's a thorn amid the flowers, Which most deeply woundeth;Oft when gladdest seem the bowers, Sorrow most aboundeth.
Covet not the starry wreath Which the Poet weareth,There is bitterness beneath, Envy keen prepareth.Deem not that each happy lay Speaks a heart of gladness—Oft his strains appear most gay When his soul's all sadness.
Sigh not for the Poet's breast With its golden visions,Still pursuing Hope's bright rest, Finding still delusions.Grasping at the shadowy thing, Ever onward gaining,Flinging glory from its wing, Ne'er within attaining.
Yet whene'er the Poet's hands, O'er the dear harp straying,Music's soothing voice commands, Sorrow's throbs allaying,Not rich eastern diadems In his eye appearethHalf so glorious as the gems Which his forehead weareth.
Nor would he his heart exchange, With its fond confiding,For the noblest in the range Of deceit's residing.Friends!—the few he values more Than the glitt'ring shiningOf Peruvia's precious ore In its seventh refining.
Happy then the Poet's lot, When his lyre he stringeth,Though by heartless ones forgot, Tried and true love clingeth.