THE MINSTREL: OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. THE FIRST BOOK. I. AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ; Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war; Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! II. And yet, the languor of inglorious days. Not equally oppressive is to all. Him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of Fame Supremely blest, if to their portion fall Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had HE, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. III. The rolls of fame I will not now explore; Nor need I here describe in learned lay, IV. Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor Villager inspires my strain; Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. V. Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will. VI. Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow ; Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. VII. Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. |