Recaptured Rhymes Being a Batch of Political and Other Fugitives Arrested and Brought to Book. By H. D. Traill |
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THE MODERN POET'S SONG. |
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 | Recaptured Rhymes |  |
105
THE MODERN POET'S SONG.
Where hast thou been since battlemented Troy
Rose like a dream to thy loud-stricken lyre?
Why dost thou walk the common earth no more?
Nor lead on high Parnass the Muses' choir,
As when thy Hellas rang from shore to shore
With harpings loud, and hymns of holy joy?
Well may we for thy gracious presence long:
The fashion of the day is classic myth,
And he must liberally deal therewith
Who fain would sing the modern poet's song.
Rose like a dream to thy loud-stricken lyre?
Why dost thou walk the common earth no more?
Nor lead on high Parnass the Muses' choir,
As when thy Hellas rang from shore to shore
With harpings loud, and hymns of holy joy?
Well may we for thy gracious presence long:
The fashion of the day is classic myth,
And he must liberally deal therewith
Who fain would sing the modern poet's song.
Shake from thy brow the hyacinthine locks
That hide its ivory splendours! Let thine eyes
Flash forth as blue-white lightnings lubricate,
Spread sudden day through purple midnight skies,
Or scarlet shafts of dawn illuminate
The grey and umber of the sleeping rocks!
O colours and O shades of every hue,
Plain or in combination, faint or strong,
Red, green, and yellow, black and white and blue,
How ye assist the modern poet's song!
That hide its ivory splendours! Let thine eyes
Flash forth as blue-white lightnings lubricate,
106
Or scarlet shafts of dawn illuminate
The grey and umber of the sleeping rocks!
O colours and O shades of every hue,
Plain or in combination, faint or strong,
Red, green, and yellow, black and white and blue,
How ye assist the modern poet's song!
Far-darting Phoibos, lofty Loxias
(Since thou the glad Greek greeting well mayst hear
That hailed thee erst in Delos the divine),
If our late lays have leave to reach thine ear,
Meek, myrtle-bearing, give us grace to pass
Through the white worshippers towards thy shrine.
O apt alliteration! how a throng
Of self-repeating vowels and consonants,
How lines of labials, strings of sibilants,
Make music in the modern poet's song!
(Since thou the glad Greek greeting well mayst hear
That hailed thee erst in Delos the divine),
If our late lays have leave to reach thine ear,
Meek, myrtle-bearing, give us grace to pass
Through the white worshippers towards thy shrine.
O apt alliteration! how a throng
Of self-repeating vowels and consonants,
How lines of labials, strings of sibilants,
Make music in the modern poet's song!
107
I will compare thee to a fowler wight,
Snaring the soul with magic-woven words
Of wondrous music and divinest art;
Or haply I may liken, heard aright,
Thy wingèd strains themselves to captured birds,
Fast in the meshes of the human heart.
For men and things resemble what we please,
Such arbitrary powers to bards belong;
And, in default of genuine similes,
Conceits will serve the modern poet's song.
Snaring the soul with magic-woven words
Of wondrous music and divinest art;
Or haply I may liken, heard aright,
Thy wingèd strains themselves to captured birds,
Fast in the meshes of the human heart.
For men and things resemble what we please,
Such arbitrary powers to bards belong;
And, in default of genuine similes,
Conceits will serve the modern poet's song.
Come thou, our lord; the heart within us dies,
And, faint as in a breathless land and bare,
We take no profit of our piteous day.
Give us to look upon thee, O most fair;
Appear, O sweet desire of all men's eyes,
Ere this dread cup of life shall pass away!
For vague appeals which we interpret not,
And moody murmurs at unstated wrong,
And aspirations for we say not what,
Largely compose the modern poet's song.
And, faint as in a breathless land and bare,
We take no profit of our piteous day.
Give us to look upon thee, O most fair;
Appear, O sweet desire of all men's eyes,
Ere this dread cup of life shall pass away!
For vague appeals which we interpret not,
And moody murmurs at unstated wrong,
And aspirations for we say not what,
Largely compose the modern poet's song.
108
Come thou, and I my stanzas will illume
With all the hues that in the rainbow meet,
Alliterate all letters that there are;
Outdo all rivals in mysterious gloom,
Fetch metaphors like magi from afar,
Lit by no star of meaning, to thy feet.
For these and similar poetic tricks
Are highly prized our master's school among.
O Swinburne! and O water! how ye mix,
To constitute the modern poet's song!
With all the hues that in the rainbow meet,
Alliterate all letters that there are;
Outdo all rivals in mysterious gloom,
Fetch metaphors like magi from afar,
Lit by no star of meaning, to thy feet.
For these and similar poetic tricks
Are highly prized our master's school among.
O Swinburne! and O water! how ye mix,
To constitute the modern poet's song!
| Recaptured Rhymes | |