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