 | Poems by Three Friends |  |
17
TO A FRIEND,
ON HIS EXPRESSING A WISH FOR THE POSSESSION OF POETICAL TALENT.
O! envy not the Muse's child,
His ardent soul, his feelings wild,
Nor wish that from the trembling wire,
Your hand could draw poetic fire.
His ardent soul, his feelings wild,
Nor wish that from the trembling wire,
Your hand could draw poetic fire.
His is no pleasing task indeed,
Whose lips attune the Doric reed,
E'en should he gain the heights of fame,
The fondest wish his heart can frame.
Whose lips attune the Doric reed,
E'en should he gain the heights of fame,
The fondest wish his heart can frame.
His sweetest notes but round him bring
Dark envy with her venom'd sting,
And haughty scorn, that rudely smiles
Contemptuous on his minstrel wiles.
Dark envy with her venom'd sting,
And haughty scorn, that rudely smiles
Contemptuous on his minstrel wiles.
18
And he was marked for Passion's son,
When first the wild harp's dulcet tone
Caught his young ear, and bade him try
The soothing powers of minstrelsy.
When first the wild harp's dulcet tone
Caught his young ear, and bade him try
The soothing powers of minstrelsy.
His is the heart that's wont to feel
Deep interest in another's weal;
With joy at others' joy he glows,
And sheds the tear at others' woes.
Deep interest in another's weal;
With joy at others' joy he glows,
And sheds the tear at others' woes.
Hence, formed to taste the highest bliss,
Affection's warmest pulse is his;
If Beauty's charms his bosom move,
A Minstrel's is no common love.
Affection's warmest pulse is his;
If Beauty's charms his bosom move,
A Minstrel's is no common love.
And should his darling hopes be crost,
He roves, by hurrying Passion tost,
His noble mind to ruin hurl'd,
A maniac in a scornful world.
He roves, by hurrying Passion tost,
His noble mind to ruin hurl'd,
A maniac in a scornful world.
19
Then envy not the Muse's child,
His ardent soul, his feelings wild,
Nor wish that from the trembling wire,
Your hand could draw poetic fire.
His ardent soul, his feelings wild,
Nor wish that from the trembling wire,
Your hand could draw poetic fire.
| Poems by Three Friends | |