III.

He spake of virtue: not the gods

More purely, when they wish to charm
Pallas and Juno sitting by :

And with a sweeping of the arm,
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye,
Devolved his rounded periods.

IV.

Most delicately hour by hour
He canvass'd human mysteries,
And trod on silk, as if the winds
Blew his own praises in his eyes,
And stood aloof from other minds

With lips depress'd as he were meek,

Himself unto himself he sold :

Upon himself himself did feed ·

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,

An open scroll,

Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded

The secret'st walks of fame :

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed

And wing'd with flame,

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

Them earthward till they lit ;

Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower,
The fruitful wit

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew
Where'er they fell, behold,

Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
A flower all gold,

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling

The winged shafts of truth,

To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring

Of Hope and Youth.

So

many minds did gird their orbs with beams,

Though one did fling the fire.

Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world

Like one great garden show'd,

And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd.

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise

Her beautiful bold brow,

When rites and forms before his burning eyes

Melted like snow.

There was no blood

upon her maiden robes

Sunn'd by those orient skies ;

But round about the circles of the globes

Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame

WISDOM, a name to shake

All evil dreams of power-a sacred name.
And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,
Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd,

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word