"What! hath no poet's lyre
O'er thee, sweet-breathing briar,
Hung fondly, ill or well?
And yet methinks with thee
A poet's sympathy,
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell.
"Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you;
Your tender prime must bleed
Ere you are sweet, but freed
From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too."
Sir Thomas said, with kind encouragement, "He who beginneth so
discreetly with a dog-rose, may hope to encompass a damask-rose ere
he die."
Willy did now breathe freely. The commendation of a knight and
magistrate worked powerfully within him; and Sir Thomas said
furthermore, -
"These short matters do not suit me. Thou mightest have added some
moral about life and beauty,--poets never handle roses without one;
but thou art young, and mayest get into the train."
Willy made the best excuse he could; and no bad one it was, the
knight acknowledged; namely, that the sweet-briar was not really
dead, although left for dead.
"Then," said Sir Thomas, "as life and beauty would not serve thy
turn, thou mightest have had full enjoyment of the beggar, the
wayside, the thieves, and the good Samaritan,--enough to tapestry
the bridal chamber of an empress.
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