III
Whoever plays with golden strings,
Him honor more than thyself even;
For know that God did love thee so,
He needs must send him thee from heaven.
’Tis terrible when plague and want
To God’s chastisement must belong;
Of punishments the greatest though,
Is when a nation lacks in song.
That race indeed has yet to die,
That had its prophets still to sing;
And every song that’s born in heaven
In even death new life doth bring.
IV
Cast ye not stones at your prophets,
For like the birds bards are alone:
They never will return to him
Who casts at them a stone.
A nation seeks God’s punishment
When unrevered its bards it wrongs;
And direst is the curse of God,
Whenever he withdraws his songs.
A poet’s heart is truly pure,
And likewise from all wrath apart
And from his heart whate’er he sings,
That carry thou within thy heart.
V
A hundred years passed ’ere I came
Upon the grave that once was mine;
The sexton sang my song and piled
My bones with others in that shrine.
