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TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE PRINCE'S QUEST AND OTHER POEMS”.
Wouldst thou join, O brother,
The swift-winged poet-throng?
Wouldst thou tread the burning
Paths where singers, yearning
Onward, upward turning,
Jostle one another,
The mountain-airs among?
The swift-winged poet-throng?
Wouldst thou tread the burning
Paths where singers, yearning
Onward, upward turning,
Jostle one another,
The mountain-airs among?
212
Oh, thy soul is young yet,
Crowned with sweet youth's leaves;
Thou hast not been maddened
By neglect, and saddened
By lost love,—but gladdened
All thy soul hath sung,—yet
Fate thy future weaves.
Crowned with sweet youth's leaves;
Thou hast not been maddened
By neglect, and saddened
By lost love,—but gladdened
All thy soul hath sung,—yet
Fate thy future weaves.
Joy thou shalt have, singer;
Not all song is pain:
Hearts of women sweeter
Than thine own soft metre,
Than thy swift words fleeter,
Shall for thy sake linger,—
Hearken to thy strain.
Not all song is pain:
Hearts of women sweeter
Than thine own soft metre,
Than thy swift words fleeter,
Shall for thy sake linger,—
Hearken to thy strain.
Many a sunset waits thee,
Many a summer day;
Many a bower of roses
Where Venus' breast reposes
And all its wealth discloses;
Time not yet, friend, hates thee;
Thou art early in the way.
Many a summer day;
213
Where Venus' breast reposes
And all its wealth discloses;
Time not yet, friend, hates thee;
Thou art early in the way.
Many a friend shall find thee,
Many a friend forsake;
Many a love with tender
Show of white soft splendour
Shall for thee surrender;
Many a bright noon blind thee,
Many a morning break.
Many a friend forsake;
Many a love with tender
Show of white soft splendour
Shall for thee surrender;
Many a bright noon blind thee,
Many a morning break.
Many seas with billows
Green or blue or grey
Shall for thee their roaring
Music be forth-pouring:
Many birds be soaring
Through the oaks and willows
Where thy footsteps stray.
Green or blue or grey
Shall for thee their roaring
Music be forth-pouring:
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Through the oaks and willows
Where thy footsteps stray.
So thy life shall forward
Push its lingering wave;
Till the stars less golden
Seem than in the olden
Sweet days mist-enfolden;
Till thou lookest shoreward,
Poet, at thy grave.
Push its lingering wave;
Till the stars less golden
Seem than in the olden
Sweet days mist-enfolden;
Till thou lookest shoreward,
Poet, at thy grave.
See that ere thou sinkest,
Some true work be done:
Ere the rose-leaves wither
Seek to lure fame hither;
With thy lyre and zither
Light what life thou drinkest
Ere the set of sun.
Some true work be done:
Ere the rose-leaves wither
Seek to lure fame hither;
With thy lyre and zither
Light what life thou drinkest
Ere the set of sun.
215
One true song is endless,
One sweet hymn supreme:
Chant but one true tender
Song, and its winged splendour
Back to thee shall render,
Yea, though life be friendless,
Joy deeper than thy dream.
One sweet hymn supreme:
Chant but one true tender
Song, and its winged splendour
Back to thee shall render,
Yea, though life be friendless,
Joy deeper than thy dream.
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