The partial Muse has from my earliest hours Smiled on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, To weave fantastic garlands for my head: But far, far happier is the lot of those Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; Which, while it decks the head with many a rose, Reserves the thorn to fester in the heart. For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove, Points every pang, and deepens every sigh Of mourning Friendship, or unhappy Love. Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favours cost, If those paint sorrow best -- who feel it most! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: A NIGHT-SCENE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES PAUPER PETE'S SONG by MATHILDE BLIND THE ROBIN REDBREAST by MATHILDE BLIND BLESS THE BLESSED MORN by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR IN THE COACH by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |