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Make his prison a palace with sumptuous fare,
Be the bars of gold, that confine him there;
'Midst the noise and dust of the city street
He may caro! his notes so high and sweet,
But his golden breast-plate a secret shields,
He has not forgotten the waving fields.


THE MIND'S TREASURE-HOUSE.

The stars of Heaven's ethereal blue,
The birds and flowers of Spring,
Present to every passer-by
Their sweetest offering.

Can hearts be hopeless, homes be drear,
When joys like these are given
To deck and beautify the earth
And lift our thoughts to Heaven?

The song that filled the singer's soul
Another could not hear,
Naught but the echo of that song
Fell on the listening ear.

The artist's grandest masterpiece
The searchers can not find;
Hidden and still unseen it lies
An ideal of the mind.

So with the poet, truest words,
By inspiration wrought,
Are but—though robed in loveliness—
A shadow of the thought.

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