To Imitators

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When, by sorrow inspired,
The poet sings his own pine,
Whose soul will be cold and tired
To give not him the answer, fine?
Who, greedy for the old damnation,
Will dare to scoff at sadness, else?
But all are cold to execration,
The imitated cry’s vexation,
Affected wailing is a jest!
The poet, stirring every soul,
Has reached the suffers’ mysteries,
Without worm of somewhat boiling,
Complaisant labored musings’ tricks.
In struggle with fate’s severe pressure
He took the measure of high strengths,
And bought their rudiment expression
At the price of painful hearty cramps.
Therefore his image is encircled
By rays of the unfading light,
And, like a martyr, he is honored
By people of the different kind.
But your Muse, so meretricious,
Which dreams to raise emphatic wishes
In humane hearts by loaned pine,
Is like a beggar outrageous,
Who begs for contributions gracious,
Keeping a child, who isn’t her one.

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