Feel no shame that thou hast been
Gentle to the erring one,
That the soul once dark with sin
Fairer 'neath thy smile hath grown.
TO ONE WHO BADE ME "GO WIN A NAME."
Poet! whose prophetic numbers
Seem to point me to a name,
Know that in my bosom slumbers
Every pulse that wakes to fame.
Themes like mine are not for glory!
Thoughts like mine win feeble praise;
Mine is not the classic story,
Mine are not scholastic lays.
Not from tome of art or learning
Came the spark of sacred fire;
But the heart within me burning,
Formed itself into a lyre.
And among its frail shreds ever
Spirit-voices whisper low—
Spirit-voices which are never
Echoed in this world below.
Mind may be renowned for ages,
Reason rear her altar high,
But the heart's more humble pages
Live unread, and darkened die.
