THE POETASTER.

"THY praise sounds cold, indeed, to me

Thou friend, that ever, smilingly,

Dost read the paltry words that free

My petty thoughts in minstrelsy."

Just good enough to please a friend

With the mere artifice of verse;

Just bad enough in one to blend

A pleasure slight, a mighty curse, -

My little songs fly forth to die,

Like insects frail that live a day;

And yet my soul doth ever sigh

Its secret thoughts once more to say.

For when I see the mountains stand,

Snow-capped in silent majesty,

I cannot sit with idle hand,

But ever, ever, restlessly,

I long to tell the story wild

That rugged peaks to me have told,

When, sitting like a musing child,

The dreamy clouds above me rolled.

And every tree in forest green

Its message has of sympathy;

And every flower, however mean,

Keeps a sweet fairy-tale for me.

I cannot hear the murmuring

Of breezes in the evening gloom,

Without a wish once more to sing,

Once more to tell of woodland bloom.

I loathe the wretched power of song,

But cannot from its spell be free,

While birds their wild, sweet notes prolong,

And flowers gaze reproachfully.

F. A. T.