THE BARD.
BY S. ANNA LEWIS.
Why should my anxious heart repine
That Wealth and Power can ne'er be mine,
And Love has flown—
That Friendship changes as the breeze?
Mine is a joy unknown to these;
In Song's bright zone,
To sit by Helicon serene,
And hear the waves of Hippocrene
Lave Phœbus' throne.
Here deathless lyres the strains prolong,
That gush from living founts of song,
Without a cross;
Here spirits never feel the weight
Of Wrong, or Envy, or of Hate,
Or earthly loss;
The pomp of Pelf—the pride of Birth—
The gilded trappings of this earth
Return to dross.
Oh, ye! who would forget the ills
Of earth, and all the bosom fills
With agony!
Come dwell with me in Fancy's dream,
Beside this lovely fabled stream
Of minstrelsy;
And let its draughts celestial roll
Into the deep wells of thy soul
Eternally.
God always sets along the way
Of weary souls some beacon ray
Of light divine;
And only when my spirit's wings
Are weary in the quest of springs
Of Song, I pine;
If I could always heavenward fly,
And never earthward turn mine eye,
Bliss would be mine.