Has  sung  his  songs  unknown,  unstarred,

Of  native  flowers  and  rills ;
He  sang  the  woodbine  twining  round

A-many  a  rustic  scene,
The  youth  and  maiden  lily  bound.
In  nature's  starlight  sheen.
He  sang  of  war,  he  sang  of  fame,

A  hero  in  the  ranks,
I  And  many  a  beauty  there  did  claim

From  rare  and  rustic  banks ;
He  sang  alone,  untutored  then.
From  native  flame  and  fire,
His  store  of  knowledge  was  the  brain,

'Twas  love  that  swept  the  lyre.
He  knew  no  peace  unless  the  Muse

Entwined  him  in  her  arms.
He  had  but  love,  and  love  to  choose,

A  maiden  in  her  charms ;
A  fame  and  name  were  least  of  all

The  shapers  of  his  verse,
'Twere  beauties  there,  and  birds  that  call,

'Twere  they  that  did  rehearse.
Old  Labor  once  the  gift  of  all,

Had  crowned  him  at  the  first,
But  muses  danced  across  the  hall

To  music  rare  as  erst ;
He  looked  with  cold  mechanic  eye

To  see  them  tread  the  air,
And  such  a  merry  train  went  by,

He  seemed  in  half  despair.
-254


A  LETTER  TO  OLIVER  W.  HOLMES,  255

"Oh  what  is  this  ?    Why  should  the  son

In  humhle  work  of  life,
Find  dullard's  brain  ko  sweetly  won

To  such  a  merry  strife?"
He  seized  his  harp  and  stole  away

Across  the  fields  of  corn,
Tlie  maids  went  dancing  to  the  lay,

And  Cupid  blew  his  horn.
Old  earth  and  labor  flew  afar.
The  night  came  stealing  on,
The  bended  blue  with  many  a  star,

Was  glittering  like  the  dawn ;
He  lost  his  soul,  and  to  the  lyre

He  poured  a  wondrous  song,
His  very  harp  seemed  flamed  with  fire

As  danced  tli^  merry  throng.
