120
TO A POET’S CHILD.
Feel not too warmly: lest thou be
Too like Cyrene's waters free,
Which burn at night, when all around
In darkness and in chill is found.
Touch not the harp to win the wreath:
Its tone is fame, its echo death!
The wreath may like the laurel grow,
Yet turns to cypress on the brow!
And, as a flame springs clear and bright,
Yet leaveth ashes 'stead of light;
So genius (fatal gift!) is doom'd
To leave the heart it fired, consumed.
For thee, for thee, thou orphan'd one,
I make an humble orison!
Love all the world; and ever dream
That all are true who truly seem.
