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Poem	The poet sang of a battle-field Where doughty deeds were done, Where stout blows rang on helm and shield And a kingdom's fate was spun With the scarlet thread of victory, And honor from death's grim revelry Like a flame-red flower was won! So bravely he sang that all who heard With the sting of the fight and the triumph were stirred, And they cried, "Let us blazon his name on high, He has sung a song that will never die!" Again, full throated, he sang of fame And ambition's honeyed lure, Of the chaplet that garlands a mighty name, Till his listeners fired with the god-like flame To do, to dare, to endure! The thirsty lips of the world were fain The cup of glamor he vaunted to drain, And the people murmured as he went by, "He has sung a song that will never die !" And once more he sang, all low and apart, A song of the love that was born in his heart: Thinking to voice in unfettered strain Its sweet delight and its sweeter pain; Nothing he cared what the throngs might say Who passed him unheeding from day to day, For he only longed with his melodies The soul of the one beloved to please. The song of war that he sang is as naught, For the field and its heroes are long forgot, And the song he sang of fame and power Was never remembered beyond its hour! Only to-day his name is known By the song he sang apart and alone, And the great world pauses with joy to hear The notes that were strung for a lover's ear.
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