XXVII SONG I THE lintwhite and the throstlecock Alas! that one so beautiful 2 Fair year, fair year, thy children call, All in the bloomèd May. Oh! stay. Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb Should have so sweet a breath! 3 Fair year, with brows of royal love 1 His crispè hair in ringis was yronne.-Chaucer, Knight's Tale. THE poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, The marvel of the everlasting will, Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise When rites and forms before his burning eyes There was no blood upon her maiden robes But round about the circles of the globes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame All evil dreams of power-a sacred name. Her words did gather thunder as they ran, So was their meaning to her words. No sword But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word (1853) XXX THE POET'S MIND I VEX not thou the poet's mind For thou canst not fathom it. 2 Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder ; t All day and all night it is ever drawn And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, (1853) XXXI NOTHING WILL DIE WHEN will the stream be aweary of flowing When will the wind be aweary of blowing When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? Never, oh! never, nothing will die ; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die ; All things will change Through eternity. 'Tis the world's winter; Autumn and summer Earth is dry to the centre, But spring a new comer— Round and round, Through and through, Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be filled with life anew. |