IX.

5.

Finally, Byron warm'd me with his fire,

And in a magic spell my feelings held,

Till the strong impulse could no more be quell'd,

And artlessly and low I woke my lyre,

Where few could hear its breathings; or the mire Of deep obscurity its efforts hid,

Or cool indifference every hope forbid,

Further to mount to where it would aspire.

Since then, some humble channels opening round, Invite a simple bard like me to send

His bubbles on the sea, to float or drown,

As critics may destroy them, or befriend;

And should these meet the last, then have I found

The effort well rewarded by the end.

X.

6.

Yet, some may deem my numbers sounding shells,

That merely echo back another's thought,

Into a different tone of language wrought

As memory moveth, or as passion swells;
But if I be no poet, deeply dwells

The love of song within me-ever fraught
With an intense delight, when I have sought
Those springs where its pure spirit most out-wells,
And drunk, yet was not blinded by the charm,

So as to lead my youthful mind astray,

Nor for my daily toil unfit my arm,

But so has drawn me from the evil way,

That even those around me could but say

"How it expands his heart, and keeps it warm!"

XI.

1.

Dream not, poor poet, that th' ephemeral breath
Thy brain-creation draws from out the Press

Shall save thee from the struggler's sure distress,
Or snatch thee from oblivion's cold, dark death:
Bleed will thy temples with a thorny wreath,

Just as thou deem'st the laurels of success

Should have adorned them;-disappointment's stress

Will, in the end, thy spirit crush beneath.

The social mind is of material class,

And flowers of song-the beautiful, the pure
Strewn by thy hand upon the leaden mass-
Is held a paltry, fading garniture;
Unvalued by the sordid crowds that pass,

Intent alone to keep their footsteps sure.

XII.

2.

If 'twere not for the dignity inborn,

That grows and strengthens in his high pursuit,
How many a humble poet's heart were mute,
Chill'd by indifference or subdued by scorn!
Not more fair blossoms opening to the morn
Perish untimely, though they promise fruit,
Than do the strains of many a lonely lute,
Though they might purify, exalt, adorn.
But though the "genial current of the soul"

Is checked and frozen, wheresoe'er it turns ;

Still ever and anon, bursting controul—

Urg'd by "th' thought that breathes, th' word that burns,"

It reaches, in impetuous flow, the goal

For which its elevated essence yearns.

B

XIII.

MY FRIEND'S LIBRARY.

Oh! what a precious casket hast thou there
Fill'd with the brilliant gems of human thought!
All Song has breathed of—all that Truth has taught,
Selected with judicious taste and care:

Mind-lightnings from brave, bold men, who dare

Rend off the veil by Ignorance darkly wrought O'er Reason's vision-thunders that have brought On tyrants' cheeks the pallor of despair.

When from the daily world, whose grovellings damp
Thine ardent spirit, sad thou turn'st away,

To grieve how gold pollutes, how fetters cramp
Body and soul, as if God held no sway,

Here thou reviv'st thy hopes, while gleams thy lamp
O'er page of moralist or poet's lay.