Weep not over poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.
Rills o'er rocky beds are borne
Ere they gush in whiteness;
Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn
Ere they shew their brightness.
Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
When in tears they waken;
Earth enjoys refreshing showers
When the boughs are shaken.
Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
In its deepest waters;
From the darkest mines are brought
Gems for beauty's daughters.
Through the rent and shiver'd rock
Limpid water breaketh;
'Tis but when the chords are struck
That their music waketh.
Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,
All their sweets surrender;
Gold must brook the fiery test
Ere it shew its splendour.
When the twilight, cold and damp,
Gloom and silence bringeth,
Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,
And the night-bird singeth.
Stars come forth when Night her shroud
Draws as Daylight fainteth;
Only on the tearful cloud
God his rainbow painteth.
Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song
And of gentle fancies.