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171
THE FATE OF THE BARDS.
The Poets are a gentle race,
And Nature form'd their souls for love;
Yet Love and Nature have decreed,
The woes they pity they should prove.
And Nature form'd their souls for love;
Yet Love and Nature have decreed,
The woes they pity they should prove.
The Rose, their favourite flower, they bring,
And paint it in the tints of morn,
The offering lay at Beauty's feet,
The incense hers, but theirs the thorn.
And paint it in the tints of morn,
The offering lay at Beauty's feet,
The incense hers, but theirs the thorn.
And many a mansion fair they raise—
Temples and towers that pierce the sky—
Make beds of state for Queens to rest,
While they on humble pallets lie!
Temples and towers that pierce the sky—
Make beds of state for Queens to rest,
While they on humble pallets lie!
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