Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/159
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THE JOURNEY OF TRUTH.
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Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb;
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave!—
Go thou and ransom him.
Fettered in thought and limb;
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave!—
Go thou and ransom him.
Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother or thy son.
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother or thy son.
Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery;—
Go share thy lot with him.
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery;—
Go share thy lot with him.
The Journey of Truth.
Accursed be the hour I ventured to roam
From the cool recess of my moss-clad home;
I will back to my mouldering walls and hide
These tears of despair and wounded pride.
From the cool recess of my moss-clad home;
I will back to my mouldering walls and hide
These tears of despair and wounded pride.
I sought the enchantress Fashion's hall—
The many were bound in her iron thrall;
They turned from my simple prayer away,
As I told them how vain and capricious her sway.
The many were bound in her iron thrall;
They turned from my simple prayer away,
As I told them how vain and capricious her sway.
A bard I met, with glorious eye,
And song, whose thrilling melody
Won its unchecked way to the human breast;
A flattering throng around him pressed.
I told him how fickle and fleeting the loud
Unmeaning praise of the worthless crowd;
Of the aching brow, the hollow eye,
The wearing fears, the despondency;
The sleepless night, the vigil late,
The uncertain fame, and the certain hate;
But the poet frowned, and, turning to me,
"Begone from sight, stern Truth," said he,
"Can you hush the proud and lofty tone
Of my gloomy hope? Begone! begone!
And song, whose thrilling melody
Won its unchecked way to the human breast;
A flattering throng around him pressed.
I told him how fickle and fleeting the loud
Unmeaning praise of the worthless crowd;
Of the aching brow, the hollow eye,
The wearing fears, the despondency;
The sleepless night, the vigil late,
The uncertain fame, and the certain hate;
But the poet frowned, and, turning to me,
"Begone from sight, stern Truth," said he,
"Can you hush the proud and lofty tone
Of my gloomy hope? Begone! begone!