The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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THE CHILD OF SONG. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
109
THE CHILD OF SONG.
“What is he?
The worshipped and the poor—a child of song!”
Eliza Cook.
The worshipped and the poor—a child of song!”
Eliza Cook.
A Child of Song! Oh, sadly pleasing name,
Which steals like music o'er my gladdened heart,
And, uttered by the myriad lips of fame,
Becomes a spell whose power will ne'er depart.
Which steals like music o'er my gladdened heart,
And, uttered by the myriad lips of fame,
Becomes a spell whose power will ne'er depart.
Oh! Child of Song, the voice of memory brings
Strange recollections of thy life and lyre;—
The pride that burns, the poverty that stings,
The brief hopes born to dazzle and expire.
Strange recollections of thy life and lyre;—
The pride that burns, the poverty that stings,
The brief hopes born to dazzle and expire.
I think of him, the mighty one of old—
Time-honoured Homer, aged, poor, and blind;
Who suffered much, as history hath told,
Yet filled the world with his immortal mind.
Time-honoured Homer, aged, poor, and blind;
Who suffered much, as history hath told,
Yet filled the world with his immortal mind.
I think of Ovid, by the lonely main
Mourning his exile from imperial Rome;
Of Tasso, writhing in his dungeon chain,
Removed from love, from liberty, and home.
Mourning his exile from imperial Rome;
Of Tasso, writhing in his dungeon chain,
Removed from love, from liberty, and home.
I think of Milton—Christian, bard, and sage,
Who sang Man's primal purity and sin,
Who strove for freedom in a stormy age,
Bereft of light, save that which burned within.
Who sang Man's primal purity and sin,
Who strove for freedom in a stormy age,
Bereft of light, save that which burned within.
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Musing on Chatterton, my eyes grow dim
With heart-felt tears, which will not be denied;
Well may a kindred spirit feel for him,—
“The sleepless boy, who perished in his pride.”
With heart-felt tears, which will not be denied;
Well may a kindred spirit feel for him,—
“The sleepless boy, who perished in his pride.”
Nor less for Burns, that splendour of the north,
That bright, brief meteor in the heaven of song;
Though frail, his heart could sympathise with worth;
Though poor, his soul could spurn the oppressor's wrong.
That bright, brief meteor in the heaven of song;
Though frail, his heart could sympathise with worth;
Though poor, his soul could spurn the oppressor's wrong.
And where lies gentle Keats, to whom was given
The rarest gift that moves the hearts of men?
Beneath the blue of an Italian heaven,
Slain by the poison of the critic's pen.
The rarest gift that moves the hearts of men?
Beneath the blue of an Italian heaven,
Slain by the poison of the critic's pen.
These, and a thousand more, have wrestled hard,
Beneath Misfortune's unrelenting ban;
The selfish world withheld the due reward,—
Worshipped the poet, but o'erlooked the man.
Beneath Misfortune's unrelenting ban;
The selfish world withheld the due reward,—
Worshipped the poet, but o'erlooked the man.
Such is the Minstrel's lot; yet do not deem
That all things unto him are sad and cold;
For he hath joy amid the realms of dream,
And mental treasures which can not be told.
That all things unto him are sad and cold;
For he hath joy amid the realms of dream,
And mental treasures which can not be told.
His is the universe,—around, above,
Beauty is ever present to his eye;
He breathes the elements of hope and love,
And shrines his thoughts in words that ne'er will die.
Beauty is ever present to his eye;
He breathes the elements of hope and love,
And shrines his thoughts in words that ne'er will die.
When ills oppress, he grasps the soothing lyre,
And throws his cunning hand athwart the strings,
Feels in his soul the pure ethereal fire,
And links his language with eternal things.
And throws his cunning hand athwart the strings,
Feels in his soul the pure ethereal fire,
And links his language with eternal things.
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Beneath the grandeur of the palace dome
The living music of his song is heard;
Beneath the roof-tree of the humble home,
The strongest soul, the coldest heart is stirred.
The living music of his song is heard;
Beneath the roof-tree of the humble home,
The strongest soul, the coldest heart is stirred.
Then who would change the Poet's dark career
For all that power can grant, that wealth can give?
Man's common lot may be his portion here,
But when he dies, he does not cease to live!
For all that power can grant, that wealth can give?
Man's common lot may be his portion here,
But when he dies, he does not cease to live!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |