Not song, nor beauty, nor the wondrous power
Of the clear sky, nor stream, nor mountain glen,
Nor the wide Ocean, turn the hearts of men
To love, nor give the world--embracing dower
Of inward gentleness:--up from the bed
Blest by chaste beauty, men have risen to blood,
And life hath perished in the flowery wood,
And the poor traveller beneath starlight bled.
Thus that musician, in his wealth of song
Pouring his numbers, even with the sound
Swimming around them, would the heartless throng
Have thrust unto his death; but with a bound
Spurning the cursed ship, he sought the wave,
And Nature's children did her poet save.