Sorrow and Song.
[James Hedderwick, Junr., editor of "The Glasgow Citizen."]
Weep not over poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances,—
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.
Rills o'er rocky beds are borne,
Ere they gush in whiteness;
Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn,
Ere they show their brightness.
Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
When in tears they waken;
Earth enjoys refreshing showers
When the boughs are shaken.
Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
In its deepest waters;
From the darkest mines are brought
Gems for beauty's daughters.
Through the rent and shiver'd rock
Limpid water breaketh;
'Tis but when the cords are struck
That their music waketh.
Flowers by heedless footsteps prest,
All their sweets surrender;
Gold must brook the fiery test,
Ere it show its splendour.
When the twilight cold and damp
Gloom and silence bringeth,
Then the glowworm lights its lamp,
And the bulbul singeth.
Stars come forth when night her shroud
Draws as daylight fainteth;
Only on the tearful cloud
God his rainbow painteth.
Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong.
Mourn not his mischances,—
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.