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 convinc'd 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 nought beside, Thou, having this, hast all.
Prosperity,
Such as earth names, what are its gaudes 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, Cast not thy pearls to groundlings, lest they rend Thy lavish hand ; but list when trembling dawn
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