A POET
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As one, who gath'ring flowers in a dream, Hath found a vanished passion all in bloom, And wild sweet odors lifting in the gloom Of olden time, but casts it on a stream, To mar the silver moon's reflectant beam, And laugh at circles sweeping on to doom, In dusky marges, shining in her brume, Hath England found thee. Thus her silly deem! Ah! Shame that she, whose head is vaunted so, Hath vision narrowed to a needle's eye. And only far from home, doth England know That she has doomed another son to die. But fair Columbia brings her wreath of woe, Sweet Rhine, a tear, and lyric France a sigh. |
THE CRITICS
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And when thy soul had made a simple song And laughed for very glee to sing and sound it, Outside the walls, the dim mysterious throng Wrought keen and barbed darts wherewith to wound it: There was a fault, a fearful deadly fault, And loud they screamed a very bull's-eye named it; As one they saw, as one they would assault— Each kneeling archer drew his dart and aimed it. And lo! How fared a myriad archetypes! A myriad fancies, sounds, and colors riddled! And harps! and horns! and flutes! and lutes! and pipes! And O! the laugh as each some vict'ry twiddled! But still the dainty spirit sang its song And laughed its laugh unconscious of a wrong. |
AVAILABILITY
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And shall I join this scramble after fame, Astonish so the free delightful spirit, To bind his song, that fettered ears may hear it, And win an encore, or a sounding name? Or shall his broad imperial wings go lame, To make a semblance of existing merit? Or fly no more less favor disinherit, And yield his lightness to an ordered game? Not so! and never for the fickle throng, One soaring rapture less in fancy free! But sing thou bonden music's saddest wrong My spirit-bird, 'til shackles melt for thee— Still sing, for never yet thy spirit's song, May bend to crass availability. |