Loss And Gain

Virtue runs before the

And defies her skill,

She is rapt, and doth

To wait a painter's will.

Star-adoring, occupied,

Virtue cannot bend her,

Just to please a poet's pride,

To parade her splendor.

The bard must be with good

No more his, but hers,

Throw away his pen and paint,

Kneel with worshippers.

Then, perchance, a sunny

From the heaven of fire,

His lost tools may over-pay,

And better his desire.