Poems (Douglas)/Envy not the Poet's Lot

by Sarah Parker Douglas

Envy not the Poet's Lot.

Envy not the Poet's lot,
 Though his pathway seemeth
Strewn 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 appeareth
Half 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 shining
Of 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.