 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
MINSTREL FAME.
Oh! a dangerous thing is Minstrel Fame,
Its gifts the nothing of a name—
And those dread crowns that twine the Lyre,
Crowns wreathed of asphodel and fire!
Its gifts the nothing of a name—
And those dread crowns that twine the Lyre,
Crowns wreathed of asphodel and fire!
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Deep are the sufferings which it brings
To him who feeleth as he sings—
He who Earth's sympathy would claim—
Feeling for Feeling—finds but Fame.
To him who feeleth as he sings—
He who Earth's sympathy would claim—
Feeling for Feeling—finds but Fame.
Those—those who tremble—those who thrill
O'er his impassioned pages, still
Think of themselves, and not the Bard—
And Fame must be his cold reward.
O'er his impassioned pages, still
Think of themselves, and not the Bard—
And Fame must be his cold reward.
Dark is his Destiny—alas!
While fast his glorious Visions pass;
Too much he feels—too much he knows,
And strives with proud and splendid woes.
While fast his glorious Visions pass;
Too much he feels—too much he knows,
And strives with proud and splendid woes.
Alas! he feels more than the rest,
And wears deep Passion's venom'd vest,
And breathes a nobler, fierier breath,
To sink in one cold, common Death!
And wears deep Passion's venom'd vest,
And breathes a nobler, fierier breath,
To sink in one cold, common Death!
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |