O BARD of fortune, you deem me nought br But a mark for your careless scorn. br For I am the echo-less grave of thought br That is strangled before it’s born. br You think perchance that I am a doom br Which only a dunce should dread— br Nor dream I’ve been the dishonoured tomb br Of the noblest and brightest dead. br br The brightest fancies that e’er can fly br From the labouring minds of men br Are often written in lines awry, br And marred by a blundering pen; br And thus it comes that I gain a part br Of what to the world is loss— br Of genius lost for the want of art, br Of pearls that are set in dross. br br And though I am of a lowly birth br My fame has been cheaply bought, br A power am I, for I rob the earth br Of the brightest gems of thought; br The Press gains much of my lawful share, br I am wronged without redress— br But I have revenge, for I think it fair br That I should plunder the Press. br br You’d pause in wonder to read behind br The lines of some songs I see; br The soul of the singer I often find br In songs that are thrown to me. br But the song of the singer I bury deep br With the scrawl of the dunce and clown, br And both from the eyes of the world I keep, br And the hopes of both I drown.