 | The bells |  |
46
THE KNIGHT OF POESY.
Another Minstrel, panting for a name,
Enters the lists of Rhyme
To run a tilt with Time,
And bring, low kneeling at his feet, great Fame.
Enters the lists of Rhyme
To run a tilt with Time,
And bring, low kneeling at his feet, great Fame.
With vizard down, he comes as one in mask,
Like some adventurer of old
Who, till he won the Spurs of Gold,
Laid not aside his hauberk or his casque;
He comes, his name and prowess all untold.
Unknown, this Poet-knight,
Mounted on Pegasus, most famous steed!
Seeketh the Tournament of Poesy,
Full of the hope of glorious deed;
And dares in deadly fight—
Invoking first his patron Muse—
All knights that speak maliciously;
All that discourteously refuse
To press their goblet's mouth of wine,
When he shall give as toast divine,
His Ladye-love, the loveliest of the Nine—
Dark-veiled Melpomene!
Like some adventurer of old
Who, till he won the Spurs of Gold,
Laid not aside his hauberk or his casque;
He comes, his name and prowess all untold.
Unknown, this Poet-knight,
Mounted on Pegasus, most famous steed!
Seeketh the Tournament of Poesy,
Full of the hope of glorious deed;
47
Invoking first his patron Muse—
All knights that speak maliciously;
All that discourteously refuse
To press their goblet's mouth of wine,
When he shall give as toast divine,
His Ladye-love, the loveliest of the Nine—
Dark-veiled Melpomene!
For Beauty—be it in
A blue-bell's or a woman's eyes,
A rose's or a maiden's lips in bloom,
A forest, waving like a helmet plume,
Or the soft tintings of the sunset skies—
He has a soul that claims the chance
To blunt a sword or to break a lance.
A blue-bell's or a woman's eyes,
A rose's or a maiden's lips in bloom,
A forest, waving like a helmet plume,
Or the soft tintings of the sunset skies—
He has a soul that claims the chance
To blunt a sword or to break a lance.
Beauty's champion, he is Virtue's too;
For are not grace and goodness sisters twin?
Virtue is a beauty that within
Sheds radiance without, as does a light
Through the windows of a room at night,
Or flowers, breathing from a vase,
Or jewels from their case.
He loves all forms of loveliness,
And Nature sits within him like a heart,
Ruling with magic tenderness.
The air-winged birds that dart
Up the blue stair-case of the porphyry clouds;
The Autumn-fingered foliage that shrouds
A sleeping church-yard, or the evening dim,
Stalking majestically down
Upon the noisy and mast-fringèd town,
Or the winged and ever restless ships,
Or the murmuring of Ocean's lips,
Are everlasting joys to him;
For he is one whose bosom doubted never
“A thing of beauty” is “a joy forever.”
For are not grace and goodness sisters twin?
Virtue is a beauty that within
Sheds radiance without, as does a light
Through the windows of a room at night,
Or flowers, breathing from a vase,
Or jewels from their case.
48
And Nature sits within him like a heart,
Ruling with magic tenderness.
The air-winged birds that dart
Up the blue stair-case of the porphyry clouds;
The Autumn-fingered foliage that shrouds
A sleeping church-yard, or the evening dim,
Stalking majestically down
Upon the noisy and mast-fringèd town,
Or the winged and ever restless ships,
Or the murmuring of Ocean's lips,
Are everlasting joys to him;
For he is one whose bosom doubted never
“A thing of beauty” is “a joy forever.”
His war-cry shall be heard;
It is that mystic word
Which, on a banner in the twilight brown,
A youth once carried thro' an Alpine town—
Excelsior!
It is that mystic word
Which, on a banner in the twilight brown,
A youth once carried thro' an Alpine town—
Excelsior!
| The bells | |