THE POET
Written by sir Tollemache Sinclair.
To worldlings the bard's strains are discord. They seem a lost language revived, As words heard by Paul or a missed chord, In the seventh heaven at which he arrived. The poet is not loved but hated, His nectar he offers in vain.
The world with gross pleasures is sated. Life's drugs are its choice, not champagne. Verse is not the poor language of mortals, But like the choice wine we produce.
When bards or great men reach our portals, It's Greek to the herd who're obtuse.
*Tis like a dead language heard by us. Perchance when in some brighter star, A presage of some future nigh us.
More noble — more happy by far.
The prose of this life will be seeming A poor vulgar dialect then, And verse with great thoughts grandly teeming, Will be the loved language of men.
Warm feelings in vain the bard utters.
For love's joys his whole soul does thirst, Were he dumb whilst his pulse quickly flutters, His heart o'er expanded would burst.
The Bard's aim alas ! he oft misses.
But at times he hits targets unseen.
He plumbs the heart's deepest abysses, And in them finds soundings I ween.
The poet's best thoughts with him perish, Near glimpses of heaven he can't pen, For the raptures his soul does most cherish, Find no words in the language of men.
The comfort in sickness and sorrow.
The poet's strains cause while they heal, Were we bound to repay on the morrow,
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The richest a bankrupt woaM feel.
With his tears e'en his life's oft cemented,
The dross of earth's joys he can gild,
His farewell he sighs on air scented.
With perfumes his fond heart distilled.
Poetasters of green fields oft gabble,
From arm chairs they drawl their dull strain,
'Tis of thoughts and of hearts bards should babble,
They've all had a baptism of pain.
The breeze ere Eolian harps wed it Is but wild and quite tuneless cold air, Yet in crossing its chords as chance led it, Utters music delicious and rare.
The poet's weird lyre ever changes, Common things which around him appear, He clothes with thoughts which Fancy ranges, Winged words to our sympathies dear.
Some bards have no heart but mere fancy, Seldom Milton sang what he felt, - Only sympathy has necromancy, Bards must shed real tears us to melt.
If the pulse of the poet were counted, And the strength of its beats could be told. To more than wealth's gains have amounted. The joys of his life ere he's old.
Less in man than in books he finds gladness, His muse to him's dear as a wife, Life's autumn brings to him less sadness, 'Tis the late Indian summer of life.
Near his smiles will be found his tears' fountain.
His joy has in sorrow its chord,
His sympathies tower like a mountain,
All wrong by his soul is abhorred.
Like the bright sun 'midst April showers glowing, His smile flashing forth dries his tears. When the cloud's silver linings not showing, His tears fall, his smile disappears.
The bard at new truths sometimes guesses, If he fails he shows others a track, Lights flash on the souls dark recesses, Oft when baffled he wins his way back.
Schiller says when the earth was divided.
No share to the poet's lot fell,
To atone for a fate so one-sided,
Jove vowed he in heaven should oft dwell.
Cast thy strains, bard, like bread on life's river. To thee they'll long after return, When thou'rt cold in thy grave from thy quiver, I Former shafts may some sympathy earn.
With the poet's bier deal not severely, Nor check tears, kind pity's dear leaven, When in death his form sleeps most austerely, His soul absolved will lly to heaven.
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