Records and Other Poems By the late Robert Leighton |
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IF THOU WOULDST BE A POET. |
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 | Records and Other Poems |  |
290
IF THOU WOULDST BE A POET.
If thou wouldst be a poet, and have a mind
For beauty and high thought, and be not blind
To the fine haze that floats throughout the earth,
And gives to seeming worthless things great worth—
Not only temp'rate must thou be, and chaste,
Keeping from all wild stimulants that waste
The inborn strength of the soul—thou also must
Be in thy heart all honest, true, and just;
Believing that the cheater cheats himself,
And loses, though he gain a world of pelf.
For beauty and high thought, and be not blind
To the fine haze that floats throughout the earth,
And gives to seeming worthless things great worth—
Not only temp'rate must thou be, and chaste,
Keeping from all wild stimulants that waste
The inborn strength of the soul—thou also must
Be in thy heart all honest, true, and just;
Believing that the cheater cheats himself,
And loses, though he gain a world of pelf.
Alas! that we should lose our trust in Right,
And dream that there is any other light
But will mislead us! Let not such a dream
Be thine, dear friend. Put all thy faith in Him
That breathes the Right within us evermore:
For he that holds it not as his heart's core,
Can be no poet truly. Earth to him
Is nought but earth, and Heaven far off and dim;
The mind-freeing mystery of Earth and Life
Is hidden from him, and the jar and strife
Of this work-world, to him are what they seem:
He never dreams that they are but a dream.
This breeze that comes o'er the Atlantic-wave,
Brings nought but coolness to him; and the lave
Of ocean up the beach, speaks with no tongue.
Nor is he like the poet, ever young;
Loving to bask on sunny banks at noon;
Or wondering at the big, red, rising moon;
Drunk with the glory of her midway sailing,
Or sadly, lonely, watching her light failing
When struggling with the blue waves of the west.
Nothing in Nature can his soul invest
With that fine web she weaves for poets' brains:
She will have true hearts, free from slavish chains.
And dream that there is any other light
But will mislead us! Let not such a dream
Be thine, dear friend. Put all thy faith in Him
That breathes the Right within us evermore:
For he that holds it not as his heart's core,
Can be no poet truly. Earth to him
Is nought but earth, and Heaven far off and dim;
The mind-freeing mystery of Earth and Life
Is hidden from him, and the jar and strife
Of this work-world, to him are what they seem:
He never dreams that they are but a dream.
This breeze that comes o'er the Atlantic-wave,
291
Of ocean up the beach, speaks with no tongue.
Nor is he like the poet, ever young;
Loving to bask on sunny banks at noon;
Or wondering at the big, red, rising moon;
Drunk with the glory of her midway sailing,
Or sadly, lonely, watching her light failing
When struggling with the blue waves of the west.
Nothing in Nature can his soul invest
With that fine web she weaves for poets' brains:
She will have true hearts, free from slavish chains.
Let not the world have any hold of thee:
Surround it quite. Deal not with cheatery.
Think deeply; briefly speak; and then—ah me!
I would, my friend, I were as thou wilt be.
Surround it quite. Deal not with cheatery.
Think deeply; briefly speak; and then—ah me!
I would, my friend, I were as thou wilt be.
| Records and Other Poems | |