page 18

A Remonstrance.

O! pity not nor blame
The poet's wayward ways;
Through ecstasy and shame
He wins the crown of bays.

Why pity him who climbs
To heights to us unknown?
Who weds the fickle rhymes
To music of his own.

Whose steps by sea and brook
To art are consecrate;
And in each secret nook,
Who feels but to create.

Who brings to us the sweep
Of languid summer seas,
And o'er their sapphire deep
The seaweed-scented breeze.

Who burns with costly glow
His own life's fiery flame,
A beacon light to show
The loneliness of fame.

Why blame his strange descent?
From giddy heights he reels—
Is it not punishment
To feel the pang he feels?

O! pity not nor blame
The poet's wayward ways;
Dear is his tear-bought fame—
But sweet the voice of praise.