THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
17
Would fain in other cups infuse
His own delights, and fondly woos
The world, without that worldliness
Which wanting, there is no success;
Hears his song sink unmark'd away,—
Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay,—
Lifts to his native heaven his eyes,
Turns to the earth, despairs and dies;
Leaving a memory whose reward
Might lesson many a future bard,
Or, harder still, a song whose fame
Has long outlived its minstrel's name.
"Oh, must this be!" Clemenza said,
"Thus perish quite the gifted dead!
How many a wild and touching song
To my own native vales belong,
c
