Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/159

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THE JOURNEY OF TRUTH.
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Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave, Fettered in thought and limb;Whose hopes are all beyond the grave!— Go thou and ransom him.
Whene'er thou meet'st a human form Less favoured than thine own,Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm, Thy brother or thy son.
Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by; Perhaps thou canst redeemThe breaking heart from misery;— Go share thy lot with him.
The Journey of Truth.
Accursed be the hour I ventured to roamFrom the cool recess of my moss-clad home;I will back to my mouldering walls and hideThese tears of despair and wounded pride.
I sought the enchantress Fashion's hall—The many were bound in her iron thrall;They turned from my simple prayer away,As I told them how vain and capricious her sway.
A bard I met, with glorious eye,And song, whose thrilling melodyWon its unchecked way to the human breast;A flattering throng around him pressed.I told him how fickle and fleeting the loudUnmeaning praise of the worthless crowd;Of the aching brow, the hollow eye,The wearing fears, the despondency;The sleepless night, the vigil late,The uncertain fame, and the certain hate;But the poet frowned, and, turning to me,"Begone from sight, stern Truth," said he,"Can you hush the proud and lofty toneOf my gloomy hope? Begone! begone!
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