“THERE IS A PLEASURE IN POETIC PAINS”

There is a pleasure in poetic pains

Which only Poets know;—‘ twas rightly said;

Whom could the Muses else allure to tread

Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains?

When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains,

How oft the malice of one luckless word

Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,

Haunts him belated on the silent plains!

Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear,

At last, of hindrance and obscurity,

Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn;

Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear

The moment it has left the virgin's eye,

Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.