THE POETESS.
Behold her now amid the crowd
That cling round pleasure's idol shrine;
Think you that heart hath ever bowed?
Think you that spirit could repine?
Careless amidst a careless crowd
While all the glittering, gaudy throng,
Utter their eager praise aloud,
And crown her queen of lyric song.
That cling round pleasure's idol shrine;
Think you that heart hath ever bowed?
Think you that spirit could repine?
Careless amidst a careless crowd
While all the glittering, gaudy throng,
Utter their eager praise aloud,
And crown her queen of lyric song.
Yet think not that her heart is cold,
And to the worldly ones allied;
For she is of another mould,
The child of passion and of pride.
Seest thou the flush upon her cheek,
The burning fever in her eye?
They're beautiful, but O! they speak
A soul that struggles towards the sky.
And to the worldly ones allied;
For she is of another mould,
The child of passion and of pride.
Seest thou the flush upon her cheek,
The burning fever in her eye?
They're beautiful, but O! they speak
A soul that struggles towards the sky.
One that would fly, and not return,
On eagle's pinions far away;
One that would fain escape the stern,
Heart-breaking scenes of every day;
On eagle's pinions far away;
One that would fain escape the stern,
Heart-breaking scenes of every day;
