THE POET.
I was told yesterday by one with wise
Solemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,
That poetry is an idle trade, alack!
He had a good black coat upon his back,
And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too,
That he who verses writes will never do
Well in the world, that his character is gone,
And he himself no better than a drone.
So having said he walked away well pleased;—
Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.
Has he in summer ever watched a rose
Burst into blossoming, and as it grows
More and more beautiful, sweeten all the air
With its rich perfume,—poetry was there.
A sunbeam thrown across
The clouds, that makes them glow
With light ineffable
To eyes from earth below;
A small wave of the sea
When the vast ocean waits
The coming of the storm,
That slightly agitates
Its surface passing,—as
When of danger near
First made aware, the roused
Lion, though not in fear
Looks up, the watchfire then
Kindling in his eye,
His mane scarcely as yet
Moved, nor erected high
His head, but his proud glance
Circling keen, rapid, stern,—
There poetry is seen
By one that can discern.
A priest of Nature's own,
One she herself ordains,
The poet walks in brightness,
And still new blessings gains.
The sky above hath in it
More beauty to his sight,
Than to the world it shines
In its canopy of light.
The flowers his kindred are
That grow in fields remote;
They waken in his heart
The pure wellsprings of thought:
They speak to him alone
With low and whispering voice,
Like gentle maiden to
The lover of her choice.
And none but he can tell
What is it that they say,
For a most sweet communion
Is their's to cheer his way.
The ocean in its vastness,
He loves, too, as he sees
It driven by the tempest,
Or slumbering in the breeze.
It brings into his vision
The coming of that day,
When Time within Eternity
Shall merge itself away.
The forest trees antique
Are his familiar friends,
With the spirit of the woods
His own for ever blends:
And voices of the past,
With fancies of old times,
Do their murmurings recall
Which he fondly puts in rhymes.
Echoes of distant lands
Beyond the western sea,
Or in the burning east,
Where'er they chance to be,
Are brought to him at night
And cheer his spirit then,
When sleep forsakes the eyes
Of care-worn worldly men.
And ever for his kind
Doth his spirit warmly yearn,
And his verses speak of things
Which only he can learn.
The human heart, and all
Its feelings, hopes and fears,
All that it fondly loves,
All that it blindly fears,
Its sympathies, affections,
Its duties and desires,
All that its doubts foreshadow,
All that its pride inspires,
Its sorrows and its faintings,
Its buoyancy and glee,
Its passions and its promptings,
Its truth and constancy;
He knows, and can depicture,
For of the human mind
He is the chosen minister,
The prophet of his kind.
Such, yea and more, the poet is,
Had he had a choice
Of destinies, if in his fate
Had been heard his voice;
It might have been so that he had
Been a worldling born,
And looked solemn like his scorners,
And had gravely worn
A black coat too, of fashion's cut,
And smoothed trim his beard,
And shook his head wisely, and been
Sententious, and feared
The world's opinion, and condemned
Poetry as idle,
But in his vocation he can
Ne'er his feelings bridle.
His thoughts are in a stronger hand
Than his own, his mind
Has thinks passing in it still, that
Cannot be confined:
Like the birds flying as they list
Through the summer air,
Or the clouds driven by the breeze
Floating everywhere.