The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | XI. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
289
THE INSPIRING SPIRITS
The spirits of stars, the spirits of waves and seas,
The spirits of sunset-clouds, the spirits of trees,
Inspire the poet's song.
He passes rapidly from sphere to sphere:
The mountain-thunder now enthrals his ear;
Next with the sea-wind's harp he dallies long.
The spirits of sunset-clouds, the spirits of trees,
Inspire the poet's song.
He passes rapidly from sphere to sphere:
The mountain-thunder now enthrals his ear;
Next with the sea-wind's harp he dallies long.
The dead hosts, myriads who have passed away,
Are marshalled and divided. Some hosts sway
The stormy purplest seas:
Others, far inland in the forest-nooks,
Rule only flowers and birds and rippling brooks
And the thyme-scented breeze.
Are marshalled and divided. Some hosts sway
The stormy purplest seas:
Others, far inland in the forest-nooks,
Rule only flowers and birds and rippling brooks
And the thyme-scented breeze.
The mortal poet, as from sphere to sphere
Upon our earth he passes, now can hear
The gentler dead hosts speak:
Next full of lordly triumph, he bestows
Large speech and song's divine relief on those
Whose spirits haunt clouds, mist, and mountain-peak.
Upon our earth he passes, now can hear
The gentler dead hosts speak:
290
Large speech and song's divine relief on those
Whose spirits haunt clouds, mist, and mountain-peak.
Therefore his heart is diverse, and his strain
Diverse—charged now with a tremendous pain,
The anguish of the dead:
Next winged amid the woods, and light as air,
And buoyant as that butterfly poised there
Upon the thistle-head.
Diverse—charged now with a tremendous pain,
The anguish of the dead:
Next winged amid the woods, and light as air,
And buoyant as that butterfly poised there
Upon the thistle-head.
Wild spirits' jealous outcries fill the breeze:
“Sing us,” they say, “before thou singest these;”
“Is not my wave-breast white?”
The ocean-spirit says. “Hath not my face,
Full of soft forest-beauty, yet more grace?”
The forest-spirit asks with laughter light.
“Sing us,” they say, “before thou singest these;”
“Is not my wave-breast white?”
The ocean-spirit says. “Hath not my face,
Full of soft forest-beauty, yet more grace?”
The forest-spirit asks with laughter light.
“One sonnet!” begs the fairy of the rose.
“Once let me speak in song that throbs and glows!”
The battle-spirit craves.
Dead Cromwell yearns for utterance. Heaven and hell
Have each their calm or bitter tale to tell:
Each claims its own song-staves.
“Once let me speak in song that throbs and glows!”
The battle-spirit craves.
Dead Cromwell yearns for utterance. Heaven and hell
Have each their calm or bitter tale to tell:
Each claims its own song-staves.
291
In every varying spot, in each new place,
The poet's singing changes heart and face.
He meets beside the foam
The passionate form of Venus, still as young
As when the eager waves that round her clung
Were altered, wave by wave, to white flower-bloom.
The poet's singing changes heart and face.
He meets beside the foam
The passionate form of Venus, still as young
As when the eager waves that round her clung
Were altered, wave by wave, to white flower-bloom.
He meets again by yonder vine-tressed hill
Dante. His heart can sympathize and thrill
At a great city's pain.
In Paris blood-red revolution sweeps
Superb and dread before his eyes,—then leaps
In fierce song from his brain.
Dante. His heart can sympathize and thrill
At a great city's pain.
In Paris blood-red revolution sweeps
Superb and dread before his eyes,—then leaps
In fierce song from his brain.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |