Draws seaward from its foamy Glad death may pluck thee, but breaking. Or in low murmurs they began, Rising and rising momently, As o'er a harp Æolian A fitful breeze, until they ran Up to a sudden ecstasy. And then, like minute - drops of rain Ringing in water silvery, never before The gold dust of thy bloom di vine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of hea venly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away Some impulses bright They lingering dropped and Which fall upon souls that are lone dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be. SONG TO M. L. A LILY thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud not opened quite, That hourly grew more pure and white, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy Thou wast waited on The rain and the dew for thee took care; and astray, To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day. ALLEGRA I WOULD more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before, Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store. Thou canst not see a shade in life; With sunward instinct thou dost rise, It seemed thou never couldst be And, leaving clouds below at more fair. strife, Gazest undazzled at the skies, A lily thou wast when I saw thee With all their blazing splendors first, A lily-bud; but oh, how strange, rife, A songful lark with eagle's eyes. Alone were fitting themes of He in his heart was ever meek and epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow Than the world's seeming loss could take away. To know the heart of all things was his duty, All things did sing to him to Out rushed his song, like molten To teach that action was the truth of thought, He watched the flowing of Time's And, with strong arm and purpose steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him firm and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he wrought. And whispered to him, and he So did he make the meanest man prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord, Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! II But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! This longing was but granted unto thee Who lies with idle elbow on the That, when all beauty thou couldst grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, feel and know it, That beauty in its highest thou shouldst be. To all men's prides and fancies O thou who moanest tost with sea. Chimes with the music of the Whose soul is overfilled with eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, And sending sun through the Thou of the toil-strung hands and For he unmakes who doth not In whom the hero-spirit yet con all put forth The power given freely by our loving Father tinues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, To show the body's dross, the Arouse! let thy soul break in spirit's worth. Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Shiver the mists that hide thy Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy starry lyre, 70 And let man's soul be yet again beholden love, thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs have meant. To thee for wings to soar to her | Where'er thy wildered crowd of Be no more shamefaced to speak There still is need of martyrs and The hope, the fire, the loving From age to age man's still aspir Say not his onward footsteps And thou in larger measure dost Of the great wings of some new- Sit thou enthroned where the lighted sphere! 80 Poet's mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, They all may drink and find the rest they seek. Control a lovely prospect every way; 130 Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,' And find a bottom still of worthless clay; Sing! there shall silence grow in Who heeds not how the lower For who shall bring the Maker's Where the encircling soul serene Which every age demands to do Who feels that God and Heaven's it right. Proprieties our silken bards en viron; great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellowman is nigh, He who would be the tongue of Who doth not hold his soul's own this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high; And strike it with a toil-im- Who to the Right can feel himself So that all beauty awes us in his This, this is he for whom the looks; Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 150 Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art. And follows the One Will obe- To him the smiling soul of man |