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THE POET-PROPHET
The poet is the Prophet. His the task
To herald Truth yet far from common sight,
The germs of the world's work to bring to light,
To lift the resurrection-hope from hell.
Song is a Gospel. Whose doth but bask
In poet-glory, who thrusts not the might
Of Wisdom's spear before the ages' fight,
Is not the Poet—sing he ne'er so well.
To herald Truth yet far from common sight,
The germs of the world's work to bring to light,
To lift the resurrection-hope from hell.
Song is a Gospel. Whose doth but bask
In poet-glory, who thrusts not the might
Of Wisdom's spear before the ages' fight,
Is not the Poet—sing he ne'er so well.
The Poet is the Prophet. Would'st thou clip
Isaiah's wings, and mew him in a cage—
A singing bird—my Lady Lazy's page—
To soothe dull ears with some luxurious rhyme?
He stands before God's altar; his grand lip
Hath kiss'd the living coal; the prophet-rage
Burneth his heart—and on our darken'd age
Bursts forth, a lava flood of hopes sublime.
Isaiah's wings, and mew him in a cage—
A singing bird—my Lady Lazy's page—
To soothe dull ears with some luxurious rhyme?
He stands before God's altar; his grand lip
Hath kiss'd the living coal; the prophet-rage
Burneth his heart—and on our darken'd age
Bursts forth, a lava flood of hopes sublime.
The poet is the seër, and sayer too:
Prophet and soothsayer of all mankind.
What though—like the Song-Titan, Homer—blind,
And with no conscience of the future growth,
He sings of Troy the Past? Yet Troy the New
Comes on the echo. Is the tempest-wind
Fraught but with battle-shouts? Some tones thou'lt find
Of music yet unknown: past, future,—both.
Prophet and soothsayer of all mankind.
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And with no conscience of the future growth,
He sings of Troy the Past? Yet Troy the New
Comes on the echo. Is the tempest-wind
Fraught but with battle-shouts? Some tones thou'lt find
Of music yet unknown: past, future,—both.
The Praiser of Admetus' noble Wife
True marriage prophesied: an argument
As close as Milton's, when that seër went
From Freedom's temple down unto his home;
Not less a poet then than by the strife
Angelic standing when high heaven was rent.
He, who best sang of God and Man's Descent,
Sang also of the Paradise to come.
True marriage prophesied: an argument
As close as Milton's, when that seër went
From Freedom's temple down unto his home;
Not less a poet then than by the strife
Angelic standing when high heaven was rent.
He, who best sang of God and Man's Descent,
Sang also of the Paradise to come.
And He who wears the Constellated Crown—
As king of human minds—within the rim
Of his wide realm may see a Brighter dim
The starry point of each haught pyramid.
Brightest the Star whose beams are farthest thrown,
Whereby the storm-confused his sails may trim.
Higher than Hamlet the Promethean Hymn
Of the far future Shelley hath unhid.
As king of human minds—within the rim
Of his wide realm may see a Brighter dim
The starry point of each haught pyramid.
Brightest the Star whose beams are farthest thrown,
Whereby the storm-confused his sails may trim.
Higher than Hamlet the Promethean Hymn
Of the far future Shelley hath unhid.
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The Poet is the Prophet: nothing less.
'Tis he who, lark-like, biddeth Toil aspire;
Or through our wilderness, a pillar'd fire,
Goeth before us. Though he seem a cloud,
In this broad glare of little-knowingness,
Ere night our Best shall follow and admire.
The Pole-star of Man's Life is in the Lyre.
Stoop not, O Poet! from thy causeway proud.
'Tis he who, lark-like, biddeth Toil aspire;
Or through our wilderness, a pillar'd fire,
Goeth before us. Though he seem a cloud,
In this broad glare of little-knowingness,
Ere night our Best shall follow and admire.
The Pole-star of Man's Life is in the Lyre.
Stoop not, O Poet! from thy causeway proud.
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