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Home  »  An American Anthology, 1787–1900  »  1271 To an Obscure Poet Who Lives on My Hearth

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Charles LotinHildreth

1271 To an Obscure Poet Who Lives on My Hearth

WHY shouldst thou cease thy plaintive song

When I draw near?

Has mankind done thee any wrong,

That thou shouldst fear?

To see thee scampering to thy den,

So wild and shy,

’T would seem thou know’st the ways of men

As well as I.

’T is true the palmy days are o’er

When all thy kind—

Poor minstrel folk—at every door

Might welcome find;

For song was certain password then

To every breast,

And current coin that bought from men

Food, fire, and rest;

And these are more discerning days,

More coldly just:

I doubt thy rustic virelays

Would earn a crust.

The age is shrill and choral-like;

For many sing,

And he who would be heard must strike

Life’s loudest string.

And thou, poor minstrel of the field,

With slender tone,

Art type of many a singer sealed

To die unknown.

And many a heart that would have sung

Songs sweet to hear,

Could passion give itself a tongue

To catch the ear.

But, cricket, thou shouldst trust in me,

For thou and I

Are brothers in adversity,—

Both poor and shy.

And since the height of thy desire

Is but to live,

Thy little share of food and fire

I freely give.

And thou shalt sing of fields and hills

And forest streams,

Till thy rapt invocation stills

My troubled dreams.