  Ay, scorn the Poet's Power, Darken with doubt his glory, Burst thou the spirit-spell he weaveth o'er thee, Till earthward bowed thine heart in youth's warm hour Grow hard as sinner hoary, Scorning the Poet's Power! Yet know the Poet's song Recks not thy spirit's spurning, But soars to Heaven's high throne, and thence returning, Gladdens the heart to which its strains belong, A rich reward still earning— The Poet's sainted song. Wo when the Poet's word No more man's soul awaketh, Nor on his clouded eye faith's vision breaketh! Wo when the world's cold heart no more is stirred, Though trumpet-tongued it speaketh— The Poet's prophet-word! Welcome the Poet's Power, Nor deem he idly dreameth: The light that on his heaven-borne spirit streameth, Is but a ray of truth from Eden's bower. When Love this earth redeemeth, Fritz. |
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