Too often grief my soul with pangs doth wring,
Instead of mirth, scorn filleth now my mind.
The world serves idols now, the good ignoring,
And truth is silent, beauty hides her face;
What is unnatural men are adoring,
God is forgotten. Mammon takes his place!
The Poet, now, should be a prophet warning,
Like those of old, reproving, praying, mourning!
'Tis not my sphere; a mighty stirring song
Requires another man, a different art;