 | The various writings of Cornelius Mathews |  |
XIX.
THE POET.
The mighty heart that holds the world at full,
Lodging in one embrace the father and the child,
The toiler, reaper, sufferer, rough or mild,
All kin of earth, can rightly ne'er grow dull;
For on it tasks, in this late age, are laid
That stir its pulses at a thousand points;
Its ruddy haunts a thousand hopes invade,
And Fear runs close to smutch what Hope anoints.
On thee, the mount, the valley and the sea,
The forge, the field, the household call on thee.
Lodging in one embrace the father and the child,
The toiler, reaper, sufferer, rough or mild,
All kin of earth, can rightly ne'er grow dull;
For on it tasks, in this late age, are laid
That stir its pulses at a thousand points;
Its ruddy haunts a thousand hopes invade,
And Fear runs close to smutch what Hope anoints.
On thee, the mount, the valley and the sea,
The forge, the field, the household call on thee.
Men—bountiful as trees in every field,
Men—striving each, a separate billow, to be seen,
Men—to whose eyes a later truth revealed
Dazzling, cry out in anguish quick and keen,
Ask to be championed in their newborn thoughts,
To have an utterance adequate and bold—
Ask that the age's dull sepulchral stone
Back from their Saviour's burial-place be rolled:
All pressing to be heard—all lay on thee
Their cause, and make their love the joyful fee.
Men—striving each, a separate billow, to be seen,
Men—to whose eyes a later truth revealed
Dazzling, cry out in anguish quick and keen,
Ask to be championed in their newborn thoughts,
To have an utterance adequate and bold—
Ask that the age's dull sepulchral stone
Back from their Saviour's burial-place be rolled:
All pressing to be heard—all lay on thee
Their cause, and make their love the joyful fee.
There sits not in the wildernesses' edge,
In the dusk lodges of the wintry North,
Nor crouches in the rice-field's slimy sedge—
Nor on the cold, wide waters ventures forth—
Who waits not in the pauses of his toil,
With hope that spirits in the air may sing;
Who upward turns not, at propitious times,
Breathless, his silent features listening:
In desert and in lodge, on marsh and main,
To feed his hungry heart and conquer pain.
In the dusk lodges of the wintry North,
Nor crouches in the rice-field's slimy sedge—
Nor on the cold, wide waters ventures forth—
Who waits not in the pauses of his toil,
With hope that spirits in the air may sing;
Who upward turns not, at propitious times,
Breathless, his silent features listening:
In desert and in lodge, on marsh and main,
To feed his hungry heart and conquer pain.
To strike or bear, to conquer or to yield,
Teach thou! O, topmost crown of duty, teach
What fancy whispers to the listening ear,
At hours, when tongue nor taint of care impeach
The fruitful calm of greatly silent hearts;
When all the stars for happy thought are set,
And, in the secret chambers of the soul,
All blessed powers of joyful truth are met.
Though calm and garlandless thou may'st appear,
The world shall know thee for its crownèd seer.
Teach thou! O, topmost crown of duty, teach
What fancy whispers to the listening ear,
At hours, when tongue nor taint of care impeach
The fruitful calm of greatly silent hearts;
When all the stars for happy thought are set,
And, in the secret chambers of the soul,
All blessed powers of joyful truth are met.
Though calm and garlandless thou may'st appear,
The world shall know thee for its crownèd seer.
Mirth in an open eye may sit as well,
As sadness in a close and sober face:
In thy broad welcome both may fitly dwell,
Nor jostle either from its nestling-place.
Tears, free as showers, to thee may come as blessed,
As smiling, of the happy sunshine born,
And cloaked-up trouble, in his turn, caressed
Be taught to look a little less forlorn;
Thy heart-gates, mighty, open either way,
Come they to feast or go they forth to pray.
As sadness in a close and sober face:
In thy broad welcome both may fitly dwell,
Nor jostle either from its nestling-place.
Tears, free as showers, to thee may come as blessed,
As smiling, of the happy sunshine born,
And cloaked-up trouble, in his turn, caressed
Be taught to look a little less forlorn;
Thy heart-gates, mighty, open either way,
Come they to feast or go they forth to pray.
Gather all kindreds of this boundless realm
To speak a common tongue in thee! Be thou—
Heart, pulse, and voice, whether pent hate o'erwhelm
The stormy speech or young love whisper low.
Cheer them, immitigable battle-drum!
Forth, truth-mailed, to the old unconquered field—
And lure them gently to a laurelled home,
In notes softer than lutes or viols yield.
Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath,
Closing their lids, bestow a dirge-like death!
To speak a common tongue in thee! Be thou—
Heart, pulse, and voice, whether pent hate o'erwhelm
The stormy speech or young love whisper low.
Cheer them, immitigable battle-drum!
Forth, truth-mailed, to the old unconquered field—
And lure them gently to a laurelled home,
In notes softer than lutes or viols yield.
Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath,
Closing their lids, bestow a dirge-like death!
| The various writings of Cornelius Mathews | |