THE POET'S PEN.

I am an idle reed; I rustle in the whispering air; I bear my stalk and seed Through spring-time's glow and summer's glare. And in the fiercer strife Which winter brings to me amain, Sapless, I waste my life, And, murmuring at my fate, complain. I am a worthless reed; No golden top have I for crown, No flower for beauty's meed, No wreath for poet's high renown. Hollow and gaunt, my wand Shrill whistles, bending in the gale; Leafless and sad I stand, And, still neglected, still bewail. O foolish reed! to wail! A poet came, with downcast eyes, And, wandering through the dale, Saw thee and claimed thee for his prize. He plucked thee from the mire; He pruned and made of thee a pen, And wrote in words of fire His flaming song to listening men; Till thou, so lowly bred, Now wedded to a nobler state, Utt'rest such pæans overhead That angels listen at their gate.