II.
There are thousands in the highways buffeting the waves beside them,
Struggling onward without respite in pursuit of sandbuilt gain;
There are thousands sinking daily, but the selfish crowd deride them,
Only hurry on the swifter—there's no time to pity pain.
Ah! what hope for thee, poor poet! in the race that they are running,
When the jar of stormy passions makes thy temples wildly beat;
Can'st thou wrestle with the torrent, can'st thou stand against their cunning,
Who will crush thee without mercy, like a flower beneath their feet.
Wherefore did'st thou leave thy dwelling 'mid the calm and pleasant places,
Where no sorrow came to rouse thee from the heaven of thy dreams,
Where the wood-birds gave thee music, and the path the wild bee traces
For its sweetness thou could'st follow, or repose by gentle streams.
O poor world! immersed in folly, O dull world! that will not hearken
To the music of a Poet singing of the Beautiful,
Close your heart against its teaching, though it be so sweet, and darken
All the sunshine of the spirit by the coldness of your rule.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Who would bid us draw the curtain that conceals the poet's sorrow,
Who would need to hear his anguish when they look upon his brow,—
It is written there in tracings far more true than tongue could borrow,
It is brimming in his glances, once so bright, so woeful now.
Gaze upon him! dost thou know him? to his long-left home returning,
For his step is very feeble, and his cheek is very pale,
And amid it like a sunset is the hectic plague-spot burning,
Ye who know no shatter'd hope-dreams, gaze upon him—there's the tale!
O the holy love of woman! O the gentle love of woman!
Breathing like a balmy zephyr on the fever'd brows of care,
Centrate sweetness of all sweetness, only in its sorrow human,
Joy without you were a phantom, grief without you were despair!
See! how tenderly she leads him with her arm around him pressing,
As to shield him from the rough world that had wrought him so much woe,
And his eyes are filled with moisture, scarcely can he breathe his blessing,
But she feels it in the throbbing of his full heart as they go.
Gaze again into her kind eyes, gaze into them, weary poet,
Fill thy soul with holy calmness from the fountain of her love,
If there's peace for thy poor spirit in this earth they will bestow it,
For she is a gentle angel sent to bless thee from above.
And she said, as she bent o'er him, half in language, half in glances,
For there is a hidden meaning far too deep for words to tell,
"We will dwell," she said, "with nature, nourishing all gentle fancies,
And the lark shall be our minstrel, and the flowers shall love us well."
So he smiled upon her gently with a glance more sad than weeping,
That a bitter thrill ran through her like a harp struck suddenly,
And she thought upon the summer with cold shadows o'er it creeping,
And she thought upon the flowers fading on the mossy lea.
But she turn'd her till the paleness, and the tears that would be flowing
Faded from her that they might not be the mirrors of his own;
Smiling comfort on him ever, evermore as they were going,
For she said "Ah! there are none to smile on him but I alone."