The Singer's Prelude

2901

hing strangely vague, and sweet, and sad,

Fair, fragile, slender;

rful, yet not daring to be glad,

And oh, so tender!

not reach the outer world at all, Despite its growing;

poem-bud such cold winds fall To blight its blowing.

whatever may the thing betide, Free life or fetter,

rt, just to have held it till it died,

Will be the better!

Mary Ashley Townsend [1832-1901]

THE SINGER'S PRELUDE

From "The Earthly Paradise

ven or Hell I have no power to sing, >t ease the burden of your fears, te quick-coming death a little thing, g again the pleasure of past years, my words shall ye forget your tears, e again for aught that I can say, e singer of an empty day.

rather, when aweary of your mirth, ull hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, eling kindly unto all the earth, every minute as it passes by,

he more mindful that the sweet days die,

ber me a little then, I pray,

e singer of an empty day.

heavy trouble, the bewildering care

eighs us down who live and earn our bread,

dle verses have no power to bear;

ne sing of names remembered,
e they, living not, can ne'er be dead,
; time take their memory quite away
is poor singers of an empty day.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate

To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king

At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.

So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,

Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.

William Morris [1834-1896]

A PRELUDE

SPIRIT that moves the sap in spring,
When lusty male birds fight and sing,
Inform my words, and make my lines
As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines.

Let mine be the freshening power
Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;
The fertilizing song be mine,
Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.

Let some procreant truth exhale
From me, before my forces fail;
Or ere the ecstatic impulse go,
Let all my buds to blossoms blow.

ng Into Chapman's Homer 2903

sound seed be wanting where gin soil feels sun and air,

gs to fill a higher state,

et my meanings germinate.

my strength be spilled for naught, some fresher vessel caught,

ded into sweeter forms,

ught with purer aims and charms.

om-dust of my life be blown ken hearts that flower alone; my knees let scions rise eavenward-pointed destinies.

en I fall, like some old tree, btile change makes mould of me, et earth show a fertile line

e perfect wild-flowers leap and shine!

Maurice Thompson [1844-1901]

LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER

-e I travelled in the realms of gold,
any goodly states and kingdoms seen;
many western islands have I been

ds in fealty to Apollo hold.
wide expanse had I been told

ep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
I never breathe its pure serene
-d Chapman speak out loud and bold:
I like some watcher of the skies
new planet swims into his ken;
ut Cortez, when with eagle eyes
ed at the Pacific-and all his men
each other with a wild surmise—
pon a peak in Darien.

John Keats [1795-1821]

THE ODYSSEY

As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine,

As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again—
So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,
And through the music of the languid hours
They hear like Ocean on a western beach

The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

Andrew Lang [1844

THE DEAREST POETS

WERE I to name, out of the times gone by,
The poets dearest to me, I should say,
Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way;
Chaucer for manners, and close, silent eye;
Milton for classic taste, and harp strung high;
Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play;
Horace for chatting with, from day to day;

Shakespeare for all, but most, society.

But which take with me, could I take but one?

Shakespeare,- —as long as I was unoppressed

With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser;

But did I wish, out of the common sun

To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest,

And dream of things far off and healing,-Spenser.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

FALSE POETS AND TRUE

Look how the lark soars upward and is gone,

Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!

His voice is heard, but body there is none

To fix the vague excursions of the eye.

Poetry

ongs are with us, though they die
and hid by death's oblivious shroud,
inherits the rich melody

g music from the morning cloud.
ere be who pipe so sweet and loud

2905

s reach us through the lapse of space:
lay is deafened by a crowd

guished birds, a twittering race;

rk and nightingale forlorn

silences of night and morn.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A SINGING LESSON

and dear bought, as the proverb rehearses, held so, for ladies: but naught

e good if the turn of the verse is Far-fetched and dear bought.

wave should it sound, and the thought nd as light as the spray that disperses f the words for the garb thereof wrought.

it shine through the sound as it pierces
ith possession of music unsought;
es of song are no jealous god's mercies,
Far-fetched and dear bought.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

POETRY

e reality of things that seem; at transmuter, melting loss to gain, to love, and fining joy from pain. e waking, who am called the dream; e sun, all light reflects my gleam; e altar-fire within the fane; e force of the refreshing rain; e sea to which flows every stream; è utmost height there is to climb;