Why shouldst thou cease thy plaintive song When I draw near? Has mankind done thee any wrong, That thou shouldst fear? To see thee scampering to thy den, So wild and shy, ’T would seem thou know’st the ways of men As well as I. ’T is true the palmy days are o’er When all thy kind— Poor minstrel folk—at every door Might welcome find; For song was certain password then To every breast, And current coin that bought from men Food, fire, and rest; And these are more discerning days, More coldly just: I doubt thy rustic virelays Would earn a crust. The age is shrill and choral-like; For many sing, And he who would be heard must strike Life’s loudest string. And thou, poor minstrel of the field, With slender tone, Art type of many a singer sealed To die unknown. And many a heart that would have sung Songs sweet to hear, Could passion give itself a tongue To catch the ear. But, cricket, thou shouldst trust in me, For thou and I Are brothers in adversity,— Both poor and shy. And since the height of thy desire Is but to live, Thy little share of food and fire I freely give. And thou shalt sing of fields and hills And forest streams, Till thy rapt invocation stills My troubled dreams.
To an Obscure Poet Who Lives on My Hearth
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Why shouldst thou cease thy plaintive song When I draw near? Has mankind done thee any wrong, That thou shouldst fear? To see thee scampering to thy den, So wild and shy, ’T would seem thou know’st the ways of men As well as I. ’T is true the palmy days are o’er When all thy...