The Failing Art

Grieve for him whose voice is o'er
When called once more to meet with men;

Him whose words come slow as sighs,
Who ever tries, and fails again.

Never now he swells the air,
Nor rolls the fair arid faultless lay, —

Harp he cannot set aside,
Nor wake, when tried, its minstrelsy.

Yet his tinkling will not cease,
Nor bide in peace; he still would sing —

When no man can tell his words
Nor hear the frail chords, faltering.

Grieve for him who fails in fame,
Nor keeps his name where none impeach;

Him who strives, and still in vain,
That fruit to gain he cannot reach.

Did I yearn such fruit to gain
I should not strain without reprieve;
I would tear the tree from clay
Let whoso pray, or rage, or grieve.