It cannot be, the baffled heart, in vain,
May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide;
Ten thousand others kindred pangs may bide,
Yet not the less will our own griefs complain.
Chained to our rock, the vulture's gory stain,
And tearing beak is every moment rife,
Renewing pangs that end but with our life.
Thence bursteth forth the gushing voice of song,
The soul's deep anguish thence an utterance finds,
Appealing to all hearts: and human minds
Bow down in awe: thence doth the Bard belong,
Unto all times: and this, O this is fame
He asked it not: his soul demanded bread,
And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a stone instead