Page:Poems Acton.djvu/58

As the soul-wearied pilgrim,
 Through a world of ceaseless care,
Watches, at last, fate's low'ring clouds
 Sweep by, without despair—
So1is it with the stricken heart,
 Whose dreams of joy are o'er;
Through its drear path of life, deceived
 By hope's mirage no more:
So is it with the heart ye seek
 To gladden, as your own,
The sickening, unpitied heart
 Of the Wand'ring Minstrel lone.

Would ye raise the fancied cup of bliss
 To the pale and trembling lip,
And bid it dream it tastes the draught
 It, waking, could not sip?
Would ye ask for tones of gladness,
 Whose echoes must be sighs?
Would ye seek for sunny smiles of joy,
 In wan and care-dimmed eyes?
Then ask not lays of pleasure
 Where their memory is gone;
Ye can list no gayer measure
 From the Wand'ring Minstrel lone.
R. A.