TO A GODDESS
Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair! Let its light stream across the waiting seas As banners float upon the yielding breeze From the king’s tent, his presence to declare. And as his heralds haste to do their share, Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees, So let the waves in loftiest symphonies Proclaim thy glory to the listening air! Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee, For thee the patient earth has waited long— To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands From the far hills and o’er the rolling sea. Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong, A beacon-light to earth’s remotest lands.
O. W. H.
(August 29, 1809.)
“How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried. “May wasted all her violets long ago; No longer on the hills June’s roses glow, Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide. My stately lilies one by one have died: The clematis is but a ghost—and lo! In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow; How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed. Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said, “On every hill my golden-rod shall flame, Token of all my prescient soul foretells. His shall be golden song and golden fame— Long golden years with love and honor wed— And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!”
GIFTS FOR THE KING
(H. W. L., February 27th)
What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King, O royal poet, on this day of days? No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays; No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring, O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling; For well we know thy beckoning finger sways A mightier empire, and the world obeys. No lute, for thou hast only need to sing; No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet The air about thee, even as when the rose Swings its bright censer down the garden-path. Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet; Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows. What can we bring to him who all things hath?
RECOGNITION
(H. W. L.)
I.
Who was the first to bid thee glad all-hail, O friend and master? Who with wingèd feet Over the heavenly hills flew, fast and fleet, To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil? The mighty bards of old?—Thy Dante, pale With high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet, Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meet To clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingale Of all that sing in heaven sang first to thee? Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hear Spencer still pouring his melodious lays, Majestic Milton’s clarion, strong and free, Or, golden link between the far and near, Bryant’s clear chanting of the eternal days?
II.
Nay, but not these! not these! Even though apace, Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately tread They came to meet thee—the immortal dead— Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place, All the wide, luminous, enchanted space Glistened with Shining Ones who thither sped— The countless host thy song had comforted! What light, what love illumed each radiant face! The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark, The Davids who for Absaloms had wept, The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine, High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark, Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept— These gave thee first the heavenly countersign!
SHAKESPEARE
(April 23, 1664-1889)
Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty shade, Sitting enthroned where awful splendors are, Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star, How shall we breathe thy high name undismayed? Poet, in royal majesty arrayed, Walking with mute gods through the realms afar— Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can bar, We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid! But yet we love thee, and great love is bold. Love, O our master, with his heart of flame And eye of fire, dares even to look on thee, For whom the ages lift their gates of gold; And his glad tongue shall syllable thy name Till time is lost in God’s unsounded sea!
TO E. C. S.
WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY CASTLE
On hoary Conway’s battlemented height, O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose! Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes; Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight, Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; Low at my feet the winding river flows; Valley and town, entranced in deep repose, War doth no more appall, nor foes affright! Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls, Where mosses creep, and ivys far and free Fling forth their pennants to the freshening breeze, Like God’s own benizon this sunshine falls. Therefore, O friend, across the sundering seas Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to thee!