THE POET.
Until Apollo calls the BardTo share the holy sacrifice,Plunged in the petty cares of lifeThe Poet’s spirit lies.Silent and still his sacred lyre,His soul to sleep a prey,Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seemsMore worthless, p’raps, than they.But once the sacred summons ringsAnd strikes his eager ears,The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused,On upward pinion steers.Then earthly pleasures cease to charm;He scorns the babbling crowd;No more beneath their Idol’s feetHis haughty head is bowed.He flies—and wild and stern his moods,His notes, now grave, now gay—To shores where lonely billows play,To depths of whispering woods.
Until Apollo calls the BardTo share the holy sacrifice,Plunged in the petty cares of lifeThe Poet’s spirit lies.Silent and still his sacred lyre,His soul to sleep a prey,Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seemsMore worthless, p’raps, than they.But once the sacred summons ringsAnd strikes his eager ears,The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused,On upward pinion steers.Then earthly pleasures cease to charm;He scorns the babbling crowd;No more beneath their Idol’s feetHis haughty head is bowed.He flies—and wild and stern his moods,His notes, now grave, now gay—To shores where lonely billows play,To depths of whispering woods.
Until Apollo calls the BardTo share the holy sacrifice,Plunged in the petty cares of lifeThe Poet’s spirit lies.
Until Apollo calls the Bard
To share the holy sacrifice,
Plunged in the petty cares of life
The Poet’s spirit lies.
Silent and still his sacred lyre,His soul to sleep a prey,Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seemsMore worthless, p’raps, than they.
Silent and still his sacred lyre,
His soul to sleep a prey,
Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seems
More worthless, p’raps, than they.
But once the sacred summons ringsAnd strikes his eager ears,The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused,On upward pinion steers.
But once the sacred summons rings
And strikes his eager ears,
The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused,
On upward pinion steers.
Then earthly pleasures cease to charm;He scorns the babbling crowd;No more beneath their Idol’s feetHis haughty head is bowed.
Then earthly pleasures cease to charm;
He scorns the babbling crowd;
No more beneath their Idol’s feet
His haughty head is bowed.
He flies—and wild and stern his moods,His notes, now grave, now gay—To shores where lonely billows play,To depths of whispering woods.
He flies—and wild and stern his moods,
His notes, now grave, now gay—
To shores where lonely billows play,
To depths of whispering woods.