O dream too pure, too heavenly, too divine
For earth!—I’ve toiled through long and weary years,
In hours I stole from sleep and life’s dull cares,
And earned a laurel for my fading brow,
That will not wither like thy fragile vow;—
Yes, I have swept my lyre through Lesbian isles,
Till it has won from kings their softest smiles;
And royal dames have worshiped where I trod,
As there had been enshrined their favorite god;
The proud have sought my hand—the high of birth