Classic Poem

Thou who canst rouse, by power of song,
The heart of the throng,
See thou stir not its lowest deep.
Wake not the chords that are best asleep,
Lest echoes fell
Shall vex thine ear and affright thy soul,
Lest the praise which is blame—which shall work the dole—
Shall around thee swell.

Fame is like wine—a cup to sip
With temperate lip.
Taste the sparkles that bead the rim,
It shall quicken the blood through brain and limb;
But, drain it dry,
Thou shall age in heart while young in years;
Thou shalt learn what heartaches, sighs and tears
In the bottom lie.