 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
118
THE MINSTREL.
How happy is the minstrel's lot,
Whose song each care beguiles;
The frowns of fortune fright him not,
Nor does he court her smiles.
Contented with his tuneful lyre,
His art can yield the rest;
He pours his soul along the wire,
And rapture fires his breast.
Whose song each care beguiles;
The frowns of fortune fright him not,
Nor does he court her smiles.
Contented with his tuneful lyre,
His art can yield the rest;
He pours his soul along the wire,
And rapture fires his breast.
He envies not the power of kings,
With all their glittering toys;
The tones that warble from his strings
Impart sublimer joys.
He builds a world of airy bliss,
Where love erects his throne;
And though his fancy frame the kiss,
Its sweets are all his own.
With all their glittering toys;
The tones that warble from his strings
Impart sublimer joys.
He builds a world of airy bliss,
Where love erects his throne;
And though his fancy frame the kiss,
Its sweets are all his own.
What though no wealth his song repays,
Nor laurels deck his lyre;
The glow he catches from its lays
Is bliss supremely higher.
What though his fairy pleasures seem
Illusion's shapeless toys—
He would not lose so sweet a dream
For all your waking joys.
Nor laurels deck his lyre;
The glow he catches from its lays
Is bliss supremely higher.
119
Illusion's shapeless toys—
He would not lose so sweet a dream
For all your waking joys.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |