THE SACRED POET.
Art thou a mouth for the immortal mind?
A voice that shall be heard when ages sleep
In cold oblivion? when the rich man's pomp,
And all the ambitious strivings of the crowd
Shall be forgotten? Art thou well convinced
That such a gift is thine?
Bow thee to dust,
And take this honour from the hand of God
In deep humility, worm as thou art,
And all unworthy. Ask for naught beside,
Though worldlings scorn thy lot.
Prosperity,
Such as earth names, what are its gauds to thee?
Accustom'd to the crystal and the gold
Of poesy, that, like a sea of glass,
Doth compass thee around. Look up! look up!
Baptized and set apart for Heaven's high will,
Search for its lessons. List when trembling dawn
Instructs Aurora; muse when night to night
Doth show forth knowledge; when the folded flower
Taketh its lesson of the dews that steal
Into its bosom, like the mother's hymn
O'er the tired infant; and thine ear shall drink
A music-tone to solace every wound
That earth has made.
Then strike thy hallow'd harp
For unborn ages, and with trumpet-tone
