IN FRENCH FIELDS.
249
Sonnet.—POESY.
Thou canst not die, my foolish fears are vain,
O Muse! O Poesy! My love for aye!
Thou livest and shalt live. The sun, the day,
Are less than thee, the life of hill and plain!
Long as the Spirit makes the heart its fane,
And homewards, Godwards, lifts our eyes, thy ray
Shall light our path, and thy bewitching lay
Our exile charm and mitigate our pain.
And ye who scorn her art, ye worldly-wise,
Or who profane it, which is guiltier far,
Ye may degrade yourselves, and blind your eyes
And close your ears, but ye can never mar
Her glory with your boastful blasphemies,
Nor quench in heaven the lustre of one star.
