IS thine to share, O lady fair,

The throng's ignoble strife—

The rout, the bail, the banquet-

hall,

And Fashion's empty life.

Be thine the wiles and hollow

smiles

That Wealth to Beauty pays,

But envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

O lady bright, the sleepless night—

The vigil of despair,

And, worse than all, the critic's gall

Are not for thee to bear.

The town's Élite is at thy feet,

And Folly lisps thy praise;

Oh, envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

Mine eyes are blue—Byronic hue!—

I turn my collar down;

Methinks I wear the longest hair

Of any bard in town.

Yet, bitter fact, my looks attract

The public's mocking gaze:

Oh, envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

I cannot find one lofty mind,

One publisher of sense;

And so my rhymes are oftentimes

Brought out at my expense.

I could not sell—I know it well—

Ten copies of my lays;

Oh, envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.

Ah, lady mine, dost seek to twine

A coronal of song?

Trust him who knows what heavy woes

To poesy belong.

Forget the fame that gilds the name

Of one who wins the bays;

And envy not the poet's lot

In our prosaic days.