Loss and Gain
Virtue runs before the muse
And defies her skill,
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painter’s will.
Star—adoring, occupied,
Virtue cannot bend her,
Just to please a poet’s pride,
To parade her splendor.
The bard must be with good intent
No more his, but hers,
Throw away his pen and paint,
Kneel with worshippers.
Then, perchance, a sunny ray
From the heaven of fire,
His lost tools may over—pay,
And better his desire.
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