Classic Poem

TO A YOUNG POET .

Take heed, my poor Friend, ere thou darest to climb
The height that o'erlooketh the far-coming time;
There's a penalty grievous to pay for thy fame,
A shadow to follow the light of thy name!
Beware, ere thou trustest too fondly and blindly
The Muse who, uncalled for, comes softly and kindly!
She is oftentimes fickle and faithless, though fair,
And is absent when most thou desirest her there.
When thy duties are done, she will breathe thee a spell,
And fill up an interval sweetly and well;
She'll console thee, refine thee, and rub off thy rust,
But, alas for her help when thou wantest a crust!
 Now, labour is honest, nay, some call it holy,—
Let it gall as it will, 'tis the lot of the lowly:
Hold thee fast to thy handicraft, be't ne'er so mean,
Till Fortune and Fame fling a change o'er the scene;
Guide the wheel, tend the loom, drive the plough, ply the spade,
Dig the quarry, make bargains, and dabble in trade;—
Turn pedlar or tinker, crack stones, cobble shoes,
Do aught but depend for thy bread on the Muse!

 Sing on, ne'ertheless, when the Spirit inspires,—
Disdain not her favours, restrain not her fires;
Pour forth all thy feelings, unmixed with alloy,
Let thy sadness be sadness,—thy joyfulness, joy.
And when thou art pleading 'gainst error and wrong,
Be thou fearless and earnest, but just in thy song;
And when wayward Fancy would take higher flight,
Let her freshen her wings in the fulness of light;
And when 'bove the clouds thou hast taken thy round,
Come thee back, like the lark, to thy home on the ground;
Thou shouldst not forego and forget the ideal,
But the earthly—the human—the tangible—real,
Have a claim on thy gifts, and thy mission should be
To arouse the Enslaved, and advance with the Free!