And, in a kindly mood, he said to me; “The nightingale is singing loud to-day, And thou, whose heart is drinking in delight From the soul utterance of the nightingale, How comes it thou art silent in the world? Thy breath and utterance should impart new life; Thy word give healing, from thy mouth should come The stream that yields refreshment unto men. Why art thou dumb and lifeless; without song? Write thou a volume with poetic grace Replete, and show the compass of thy power; God gave to thee the poet’s destiny. Whence is thy mood of careless indolence? He in whom mind is more than fleshly might Alone can frame a song that moves the heart. Write, then, a book which shall transmit thy name Down to the records of remotest time. For certainly, the name of him whose mind Dwells on the beautiful shall never die.” Now as I listened to this kind advice, A keen ambition seized upon my soul. I answered: “Friend, thy counsel I approve; Thy words have made me opulent in soul; I lend my ear to all that thou hast said, For he who would gainsay thee is a fool. But, though with ample skill and wit enough I might a book in one short week compose, The world would scorn imagination’s work, Although my power of utterance be supreme.” Then all the circle to my plea demurred, Laying a thousand fetters on my heart. “But,” I continued, “’tis for daily bread We toil, and scarce the pen can meet the need; When with my brain as pilot I proceed, A thousand cares for corporal wants molest; Entangled thus, invention fails my mind, And all my spirit’s best emotions die.” “Stay,” said my friend, “this argument is vain, Vain are these timid pretexts. Courage take. Is not the nightingale in prison bars Forever wont to pour her dolorous chant? And in its cage the cheerful popinjay Learns to repeat the words of human folk, And chatters with untiring gaiety, And warbles in a rapture of delight.” “My friend,” I answered, “in these times of ours The world is nothing but the slave of gold; Honor and office is the aim of all, While merit follows like a slave on foot. How sordid is the spirit of the world! True fame alone from generous wisdom springs. Where can we find the scholar exquisite? Alas! the world is full of ignorance; Who cares to-day for books of verse or prose? Who dares to tread the path of poetry? There may be magic in the song you sing, But the dull world is dull to every note.” He answered: “What does all this babbling mean? No man of purpose can this plea allow. Think’st thou the world as empty as thou say’st? Leave off repining, and, with courage bold, If thou hast jewels, bring them to the mart; The buyer is not difficult to find. If thou hast merit wherefore this delay?