To A Dejected Poet

Thy gift, if that it be of God, Thou hast no warrant to appraise, Nor say: 'Here part, O Muse, our ways, The road too stony to be trod.' Not thine to call the labor hard And the reward inadequate. Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate Is better bargainer than bard. What! count the effort labor lost When thy good angel holds the reed? It were a sorry thing indeed To stay him till thy palm be crossed. 'The laborer is worthy'-nay, The sacred ministry of song Is rapture!-'t were a grievous wrong To fix a wages-rate for play.