To make one song whose simple strain Shall soothe the sad heart's secret pain, And leave a balm of gladness where Had lurked the poison of despair; Ah! who would not for that refrain Give over glory's fair domain, And all the greedy gold of gain? If this its gift, who would forbear To make one song? To make one song the wearied brain Shall welcome and shall aye retain As something ever sweet and fair To still the deadly throb of care! What higher meed could worth attain— To make one song? |