Ay! look in her eyes, poor poet, kiss the tears that tremble
brightly
On their fringes till thou deem'st them her pure soul distill'd
for thee,
They are true ones, they are fond ones, and that vision, coming
nightly,
May refresh thee like a fountain rising 'mid sterility.

Backward from her upturned beauty did he smooth the golden tresses,
That Madonna-like fell clust'ring round the softness of her cheek;
'Twas a frank one, and a fair one, with the grace that truth
impresses
Beaming o'er it without shadow, so he gazed but did not speak.

Then he whispered, "Bright May, dear May, in the world where I am
going,
Going, it may be unwisely, but some magic draws me on,
There to win the fame and honour with whose fire my soul is glowing,
Thou shalt be my guiding angel, thou shalt be my helicon.

I will paint thee in my verses, thee, so beautiful and tender,
Till that world shall thrill with pleasure, and pure hearts shall
cherish thee;
Bright May, dear May, they will love thee, and thy gentleness shall
render
Earth again a sunny Eden dedicate to Poesy.

They will crown me for _thy_ beauty, they will love me for _thy_
sweetness,
They will shrine my name in glory, hear it like a household thing,
They will feel the spell of beauty, think of heaven for thy
meetness,
Thus I'll do the poet's mission, thou an angel's ministring."

So he went into the wide world with bright hopes around him playing,
Youth to make his footsteps buoyant, and firm trust to nerve his
heart,
Fame and glory clear before him like a sun the path arraying,
Witless that the golden vision of his dreams could ere depart.

II.

There are thousands in the highways buffeting the waves beside
them,
Struggling onward without respite in pursuit of sandbuilt gain;
There are thousands sinking daily, but the selfish crowd deride
them,
Only hurry on the swifter--there's no time to pity pain.

Ah! what hope for thee, poor poet! in the race that they are
running,
When the jar of stormy passions makes thy temples wildly beat;
Can'st thou wrestle with the torrent, can'st thou stand against
their cunning,
Who will crush thee without mercy, like a flower beneath their feet.

Wherefore did'st thou leave thy dwelling 'mid the calm and pleasant