Poets are a joyous race,
O'er the laughing earth they go,
Shedding charms o'er many a place
Nature never favoured so.
Still to each divinest spot,
Led by some auspicious star,
Scattering flowers where flowers are not,
Making lovelier those that are.
Poets are a gifted race!
If their gifts aright they knew;
Fallen splendour, perished grace,
Their enchantments can renew.
They have power o'er day and night,
Life, with all its joys and cares --
Earth, with all its bloom and blight
Tears and transport - all are theirs!
Poets are a wayward race!
Loneliest still when least alone,
They can find in every place
Joys and sorrows of their own.
Grieved or glad by fitful starts,
Pangs they feel that no one shares,
And a joy can fill their hearts
That can fill no hearts but theirs!
Poets are a mighty race!
They can reach to times unborn,
They can brand the vile and base
VVith undying hate and scorn!
They can ward Detraction's blow --
They oblivion's tide can stem --
And the good and brave must owe
Immortality to them!
First published in The Argus, 3 April 1849
