The Poet's Monologue

May they be damned, may they be cursed,
The moments when conceived and nursed
I had been into life by her, —
To my poor mother I refer —
To be a bard, a man of woe.
Poetry! thou art we know,
To the candid human heart
The false and spiteful counterpart
Of spider's web, which pitiless
Restrains us in its vile duress.

This spider with its venomous fangs
Imbibed much of my blood. The pangs
Caused by the meshes' knotty ties
I do not heed. I sacrifice
My heart, if while I undertake
The tainted-twisted mesh to break,
J find these spiders' snares entwine
This throbbing-tortured heart of mine,
That I must pluck it out! Ah me!
I yield it up! I must be free.

But with my blood, oh no, indeed
This murd'rous insect I'll not feed...
What compensation is in store
For all the heart's blood I outpour?
Some worthless fame or work renown,
Or even of fair glory's crown?
All of this is but dazzling naught,
Not worth to sacrifice one brought;
And at the best, where is the bard
Secure e'en of this poor reward?

Henceforth within thy shores. I race

O! ordinary commonplace
And with thy tranquil water's flow
I peacefully my wont ways go.
There is no fear I hit a reef,
Or mine be even a single leaf
Of laurel wreath; fame and repute
"Will not be mine and destitute
Of bliss I'll be, but I'll have rest
And this itself does bliss suggest.
Shall all my life I mute remain,
To song though tuned my heart and brain?
My very life an instrument,
Of tuneful -song, shall it be sent
Into oblivion? Fore'er
Must I forego what 's sweet and fair?
Not sing with joy, my woes be mute
Forevermore discard my lute?
Can ought the ocean's roaring wave

Command to be still as the grave?

I'll not be mute, poetry, no!
Because to sing I can't forego,
I nurture thee with the free flood
Of my tormented heart's best blood.
I do not care what is my fate,
Remain unknown or plaudits wait
My songs I'll sing and sing again.
Inspired by joy, by hallowed pain
I'll sing until my latest breath,
Until my voice is stilled by death.