PROEM.
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I had not breathed such notes as these, Save to myself in field or wood, But for the venial hope to please Some spirits of the wise and good. For honest mirth that sings the truth, And shakes a bell in Folly's ear, May serve a crumpled hour to smooth, And whisk away a peevish tear; While haply to the heart may go Some tones amid the fall and rise, And stir the silent springs below Of deeper, holier sympathies. So now into the streets of life I venture forth, but not alone, Too well aware its roar and strife Would drown my feeble undertone. And mindful of the world's disdain, I mimic him of Rhodopé,[A] And start, escorted by a train Of beast, and bird, and flower, and tree; For lack of these, his guardian brood, The poet in his lonely woe, By Thracian dames was torn and strewed Upon the Hyperborean snow. Were these the critics of the day? And does this ancient tale, forsooth, Symbol the perils of his way Who seeks to win by tuneful truth? Thrice welcome, then, O sister art! Divert the eye with pictured spell, Assume your own attractive part, And share the wrath you may not quell. |
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Orpheus.
