Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize! Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise; The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter-- Calm stand, and firm be, and--sober! Thou art king: live alone. On the free road Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free: Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening, Never reward for noble deeds demanding. In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art; Severest judge, thine own works canst measure. Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman? Content? Then let the mob scold, And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire. Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake. THE THREE SPRINGS. IV. 134. In the world's desert, sombre and shoreless Mysteriously three springs have broken thro': Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid; It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs. The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspiration In the world's deserts its exiles waters; The last spring--the cold spring of forgetfulness, Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire. 1827. THE TASK. IV. 151. The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task. Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly? My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand, My wage in hand, to other task a stranger? Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine, Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods? 1830. SLEEPLESSNESS. IV. 101. I cannot sleep, I have no light; Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow; The beat monotonous alone Near me of the clock is heard. Of the Fates the womanish babble, Of sleeping night the trembling, Of life the mice-like running-about,-- Why disturbing me art thou? What art thou, O tedious whisper? The reproaches, or the murmur Of the day by me misspent? What from me wilt thou have? Art thou calling or prophesying? Thee I wish to understand, Thy tongue obscure I study now. 1830. [QUESTIONINGS.] IV. 98. Useless gift, accidental gift, Life, why given art thou me? Or, why by fate mysterious To torture art thou doomed? Who with hostile power me Out has called from the nought? Who my soul with passion thrilled, Who my spirit with doubt has filled?... Goal before me there is none, My heart is hollow, vain my mind And with sadness wearies me Noisy life's monotony. 1828. [CONSOLATION.] IV. 142. Life,--does it disappoint thee? Grieve not, nor be angry thou! In days of sorrow gentle be: Come shall, believe, the joyful day. In the future lives the heart: Is the present sad indeed? 'T is but a moment, all will pass; Once in the past, it shall be dear. 1825. [FRIENDSHIP.] III. 201.