His ears are soothed by songs of joyous birds,
The lullaby of brooks and fluttering leaves.
His mind, which knows no yoke, no galling chain.
Soars free above all worlds, all fears, all shadows.
The Will-o'-the-Wisp of his imagination
Goes dancing o'er the dewy meads of fancy ;
Who does not envy him his glorious raptures !
He dwells secluded from the busy world ;
And probably the world knows nothing of him.
I would much rather be a true-born poet
Than I would be a royally-born prince ;
Princes are plentiful compared to poets ;
While they are living they are far too public.
And stand too much exposed to common talk ;
And when they die they quickly are forgotten,
Leaving no works to be remembered by.
THE SETTING SUN. 303

The poet has the empire of all time !
But least of all things would I be a poet
If I were forced to earn my bread by it,
And be compelled to live by writing verse,
Spinning my very brains for daily bread.
A man may live on air as soon as poetry.
Unless he happens to possess a name.
Poetry is a thing about as saleable
As warming-pans in Abyssinia.
Thin meagre diet is the poet's food.
I should have died, and turned to dust and ashes,
Long years ago if I had lived on poetry.
I have been one of the fraternity
Some five-and-forty precious years at least.
And written epic, elegy, and ode,
At a considerable cost of time.
And the expenditure of reams of paper.
But never earned five shillings by my poems.
No, not a crown in money or in bays.
