A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD:
TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.
Non voglio cento scudi.—Song.
Oh say not that the minstrel's art,
The pleasant gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;—
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And Penury hold his purse.
Say not his toil is profitless;—
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labors bless
With such remuneration,
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.
Annuities, and three per cents,
Little cares he about them;
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them:
But love, and noble sentiments,—
Oh, never bid him doubt them!
* * * * *
Young Florice rose from his humble bed,
And prayed as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighboring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.
And as he lay, at the noon of day,
Beneath the ancient tree,
A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.
Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him.
The pious youth began to sing,
As the ancient man drew near him;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"