Oh! why, sweet poet, is thy strain so sad?
Couldst thou not stamp thy joy on human life?
Yea, even the saddest life has many joys.
Couldst thou not stamp thy joy upon the page,
That they who should come after thee might feel
Their spirits gladdened by it, and their hearts
Made lighter with thy lightsomeness? For thou,
They say, wert joyous as a summer bird,
The very light and life of those who knew thee—
Oh! why, then, is thy song so sad? 'Tis wrong,
'Tis surely wrong, to spend in fond complainings
The talents given for nobler purposes;
And he who goes about this world of ours
Diffusing cheerfulness where'er he goes,
Like one who scatters fresh and fragrant flowers,
Fulfils, I can but think, a better part
Than he who mourns and murmurs life away.
. . . . . . The poet
Is the revealer of the heart's deep secrets;
The poet is the interpreter of nature;
And shall those light and joyous spirits, they
Who make bright sunshine wheresoe'er they go,
Shall they have no interpreter?
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Hon. R. J. Walker's invaluable papers on 'The Union,' in Continental Monthly.
[2] Razeed from a line-of-battle ship.
[3] Lost at sea
[4] Destroyed by her officers opposite the rebel batteries at Port Hudson, Mississippi.
[5] Taken by the rebels at Galveston.
[6] Foundered at sea.