Herald of the times. [volume] (Newport, R.I.) 1830-1846, 1841-03-18
OiaIGINAM iGGNU4l1o
For the Herald OF the Times

OGIGINAM iPGNY8H
For the Herald OF the Time
THE MUTABILITY OF A POET
LIFE.
The world may chide--thc heartless sne
And coldly pass the Poet by,
Who only sheds a sorrowing tear
Ger mans humanity.
His Tyre 10 strung with shattered strings
The heart strings ofthe silent dead,-
Whose memory hovers with her wings,
Where griefis canopied.
All, who eau know a Poets wocs'-
None, save Poets self;
His life 'twix, heaven and earth is spent,
A miserable elf;
lie lives and tries with all his might,
Some charming maid to love-
Bur all his thoughts and feelings have
A tendency above.
lie scars in i,ights Of fancy far,
Above the brilliant skies,
Where things sublime and beautiful,
Forever meet his eyes;
The stars are heavenly flowers to him,
lie likes to gaze on them,
They are to his rich mind, indeed,
Natures own diadcm.
lie plucks the flowers of fancy, too,
And binds them in a wreath,
And hopes that they will live when he
is still and cold in death,
lie sees rich landscapes in the skios,
And has forever sought,
The silvery streams that play around
The paradise Of thought.
lie wandcrs on, amid green fields,
To pluck earth tender flowers,
And makes of them rich bouquet,
To cheer his gloomy hours;
The trees, the grass and everything,
Of natures household kind,
And those on which her sgnct rests,
Delight Poets mind.
lie ever strives for that which is,
By far beyond his aim,
And dreams ofblss and rapturcd saints,
While earth remains the same;
lie cannot tell the whcreiore-why--
Or solve the problem vast,
The brilliant things which he has seen,
DO not in beauty last
He wakes from out dream and finds
Ills soul a barterel slayo,-
He'd gladly lay his body in
The cold and silent grave;
The world he hates, and they hate him,
For his misantbropy,
And hope he'll change before they meet
Him in eternity.
III in his youth he pens some lines,
That critics cen call good,
There are some selfish Jigots who,
In an unpleasant mood,
With grave sagacity of mind,
And words so sweet, sublime
Most modestly presume that he
Had help to build his rhyme.
Most sure, they say, the child could NOT,
G,.h i.,,.nl,, ;I,os Irosp
In garments from rich iancys loom,--
Poetic lovcliness
go am sure, says one, thalhc
Did not the verses write,
heard him say that trees and flowers
Were hateful to his sight
"And music, tco, he said had not
A charm for his strange ear,
And if these things be true, can he
Poetic laurols wear
Talk on, good folk, your vain surmise,
About the Poets make,
Affords for him some hours of fun,
Whatever leave you take.
Don't charge him, pray, with petty theft,
Whene or the muse inspire,
1t is the only favor that,
lie asks, or can desire
And though You pass him coldly by,
With sights full of again,
DO let him have the credit of
The offspring of his brain.
In after life if he produce
A poem good for aught,
Some publisher will buy the right,
For little less than naught;
Aud after death monument,
by charity is raised,
To mark the moudering bones Of him,
The world has never pxaiscd.
lie lives dcspiscd by all the world,
A heterogeneous ghost,
A subject fit is he TO join
Deaths wan and spectral host.
His rhymes are copied round and round,
By all the inky crew,
The ANIMALS for each coming year
Contain a 'squib' or two.
The people read his rhymes and laugh,
Al his diSnrdorn1 hr,,,