But ere he bows him to depart,
A hundred princely nobles pour
A stream of plaudits on his heart.
O! lamps have never shed such light
In garden bower or palace gay
As pleasure flung, so warm, so bright
On him who just had breathed his lay!
Alas! we live in iron days
When lips are sparing even of praise;
As though in one approving tone
Too much of heaven and rapture shone;
As though it were too pure a gem
Freely to cast away to them
Whose glassy joys a glance may break,
Whose happiness a smile can shake;
Their heaven the rapture-lighted eye,
And triumph, song-awakened sigh!