THE POET.

THE poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above;

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

He saw through life and death, through good and ill,

He saw through his own soul.

The marvel of the everlasting will,

An open scroll,

Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded

The secret'st walks of fame:

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed

And winged with flame,

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,

And of so fierce a flight,

From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,
Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Them earthward till they lit;

Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field-flower,
The fruitful wit,

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew
Where'er they fell, behold,

Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
A flower all gold,

And bravely furnished all abroad to fling

The winged shafts of truth,

To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth.

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,
Though one did fling the fire.

Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams
Of high desire.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world

Like one great garden showed,

And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled, Rare sunrise flowed.

And Freedom reared in that august sunrise

Her beautiful bold brow,

When rites and forms before his burning eyes
Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes
Sunned by those orient skies;

But round about the circles of the globes
Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame

WISDOM, a name to shake

All evil dreams of power

And when she spake,

-a sacred name.

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,

Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword

Of wrath her right arm whirled,

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world.

THE POET'S MIND.

I.

VEX not thou the poet's mind
With thy shallow wit:

Vex not thou the poet's mind;

For thou can'st not fathom it Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river;

Bright as light, and clear as wind.

II.

Dark-browed sophist, come not anear; All the place is holy ground; Hollow smile and frozen sneer

Come not here.

Holy water will I pour

Into every spicy flower