The Poet.

World-Teacher, yet World-scorned ! Thy harp, men say,1
To suit the Age, should be of iron strung :2
And from the solemn strains that thou hast flung3
On careless ears, they scoff, and turn away.4
Thy hand and fire have suffered no decay5
Thou art not silent ’neath the taunting wrong ;6
But harsher sounds have drowned thy voice to-day,7
And gold and gain have ruled the deafened throng.8
Poet ! thy harp hath been, and still must be,9
Strung with thy heart’s best fibres, though they break10
With the sweet strains thy thrilling fingers wake ;11
And thus the woodland bird doth mimic thee :12
Not for Life’s jarring tumult doth he stay,13
But singeth on, for God doth heed his lay.14