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VIII.

Who would not, for the joys to thee belong,
Endure the sorrows of a Child of Song?
For where's the mortal so completely blest,
That trouble never interrupts his rest?
Why launch I not out on this world's wide sea?
And if storm-taken—well—so let it be —
I reck not! — It were but to grasp at more
Than I could reach, as many have before —
And they have borne it — I could bear the same —
Be mine their sorrows then, if mine their fame!
And have I not, where I the griefs have read
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Of many of the learned, and tuneful dead;
— How that the World had brought its tempest forth,
To beat their eagle spirits down to earth,
To its vile level — And, when I have heard
Their sorrows on their magic harps preferred —
Have I not, as each melancholy lay
Dissolved my soul in passion all away,
E'en envied them their woes, and with wild zeal,
To plain like them, e'en wished like them to feel?
Then swell, ye billows! burst above my head!
And I, like them, will wake my harp to life,
That shall reprove you for your uproar dread,
And calm my soul amid external strife!
For it shall have the power of Orpheus' strain,
And charm me from my fate with its sweet tone; —
While its kind voice I listen to alone,
Frustrate the storm shall drive along the plain,
And threatening thunders roar — winds rage in vain!
Then swell, ye billows! high as Jove's arched roof!
I reck ye not — for I am tempest-proof!
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