IV.
Her flight far off the falcon's winging:
On the steed a slave is springing;
And she?—by the pale moonlight hath fled
With the living from the dead.
THE FATE OF THE LYRIST
THE soul is ever clinging unto form;
Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm
The great heart of humanity—in life's fierce storm
Pass they the Lyrist by.
The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays;
And see the wondering people's tranc'd amaze,
The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze,
His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry.
But lofty Pindar's heaven-directed flight,
Petrarca's song, mystic and sad as night,
Fall dull upon the common ear—their might
Is to the world a mystery.
Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual—
Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall;
Within the limits of the actual,
Men pass, unheeding the divinity.
Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd;
But from amidst the masses earthward bowed,
Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed,
To list their Orphic melody.
THE POET'S DESTINY
THE Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One,
Through the wide world passes the Poet on.
All that is noble by his word is crown'd,
But on his brow th' Acanthus wreath is bound.
Eternal temples rise beneath his hand,
While his own griefs are written in the sand;
He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine—
But others wear the flowers, drink the wine;
He plunges in the depths of life to seek
Rich joys for other hearts—his own may break.
Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies,
He flings the pearl upon the shore—and dies.
DÉSILLUSION
TOO soon, alas! too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang,
And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly sang.
Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature's inmost soul,
Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet's words unroll.
Cold and spiritless and silent—yea, with scorn received they me,
Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath'd the laurel crown I see.
And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow,
I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe.
But, courage! years may pass—this mortal frame be laid in earth,
But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth!
THE PRISONERS
CHRISTMAS, 1869.