 | [Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde |  |
TO ---
Utinam modo dicere possem
Carmina digna Deae.
Ovid.
Carmina digna Deae.
Ovid.
Seek other bards to hymn thy praise,
It is no theme for lips like mine;
Worthy of purer, holier lays,
A harp and minstrel more divine.
It is no theme for lips like mine;
Worthy of purer, holier lays,
A harp and minstrel more divine.
This proud, worn heart may once have known
Some chords that might have claimed thine ear,
Perhaps there lingers yet a tone,
Thou would'st not all disdain to hear.
Some chords that might have claimed thine ear,
Perhaps there lingers yet a tone,
Thou would'st not all disdain to hear.
But I have stirr'd for good and ill,
Too deeply all its secret strings,
Joys maddening note, Grief's freezing thrill
And Disappointment's fiery stings.
Too deeply all its secret strings,
Joys maddening note, Grief's freezing thrill
And Disappointment's fiery stings.
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Extreme and passionate in all,
Love—Hatred—Pleasure—Pain—Disgust—
In stormy flight and endless fall
Above the clouds—below the dust.
Love—Hatred—Pleasure—Pain—Disgust—
In stormy flight and endless fall
Above the clouds—below the dust.
No, 'tis too late! ... There was a time
I could perhaps have struck a sound,
Which like the Vespers hallowed chime
Might wake a sacred echo round.
I could perhaps have struck a sound,
Which like the Vespers hallowed chime
Might wake a sacred echo round.
Such strain would well become thy name
A heavenly anthem sweet and calm,
Like incense from the altar's flame
Breathing a more than earthly balm.
A heavenly anthem sweet and calm,
Like incense from the altar's flame
Breathing a more than earthly balm.
But now. ... No more! ... that time is past—
I must not wake one note for thee,
The seal is set—the die is cast
And I fullfill my destiny!
I must not wake one note for thee,
The seal is set—the die is cast
And I fullfill my destiny!
Aye! leave me to my wayward fate,
My praise thy virtues would but stain,
And worth, I may not consecrate,
I prize too highly to prophane.
My praise thy virtues would but stain,
And worth, I may not consecrate,
I prize too highly to prophane.
Then seek somewhere to hear thy praise
It is no theme for lips like mine,
No! it belongs to holier lays,
A harp and minstrel more divine.
It is no theme for lips like mine,
No! it belongs to holier lays,
A harp and minstrel more divine.
| [Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde | |