THE POET. 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, He saw thro' 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 wing'd with flame, 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, Though one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in Of high desire. 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 Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 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 Vex not thou the poet's mind For thou cans't not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river; Bright as light, and clear as wind. II. Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 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 Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn And yet, though its voice be so clear and full, |