He spake of virtue: not the gods And with a sweeping of the arm, Most delicately hour by hour And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips depress'd as he were meek, Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek. THE POET. THE poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise When rites and forms before his burning eyes There was no blood upon her maiden robes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame All evil dreams of power-a sacred name. Her words did gather thunder as they ran, The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, Like sheet-lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. SLOW sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls: From wandering over the lea: Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea: O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me: Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; For here are the blissful downs and dales, So was their meaning to her words. Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, No sword But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word THE POET'S MIND. 1. VEX not thou the poet's mind For thou canst not fathom it. Bright as light, and clear as wind. 2. Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, Like sheet-lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. |