Duganne's Poetical Works Autograph edition. Seventy-five Copies |
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 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
89
Not mine to rule the poet's realms of light—
Not mine to sway the golden tides of song;
Nor may my fingers sweep the chords
That once their stormy music flung,
When Homer trod the Chian strand;
Or rained celestial strains, when sung
Another sightless one in Albion's land.
Oh! not for me the deep, melodious words
That only to those raptured bards belong,
Who, blind to earth, saw heaven with saintly sight,
And spake its language with seraphic tongue.
I may not strike immortal Dante's lyre,
Nor dare the organ-swell of Avon's choir,
Nor thrill with Harold's grand and gloomy fire!
Not mine to sway the golden tides of song;
Nor may my fingers sweep the chords
That once their stormy music flung,
When Homer trod the Chian strand;
Or rained celestial strains, when sung
Another sightless one in Albion's land.
Oh! not for me the deep, melodious words
That only to those raptured bards belong,
Who, blind to earth, saw heaven with saintly sight,
And spake its language with seraphic tongue.
I may not strike immortal Dante's lyre,
Nor dare the organ-swell of Avon's choir,
Nor thrill with Harold's grand and gloomy fire!
Yet, haply I, with reach of high desire,
May lift my song to greet the orient breaks
Of freedom—as old Memnon hailed the sun;
And fling my numbers to the aspiring wind
That swells exultant with the voice of man,
Singing the birth-song of his dawning hopes;—
Even I, out-looking from my yearning soul,
May chant with answering joy the sounding strain
That mounts impetuous from each patriot's heart—
Crying to all the world, that Freedom lives!
May lift my song to greet the orient breaks
Of freedom—as old Memnon hailed the sun;
90
That swells exultant with the voice of man,
Singing the birth-song of his dawning hopes;—
Even I, out-looking from my yearning soul,
May chant with answering joy the sounding strain
That mounts impetuous from each patriot's heart—
Crying to all the world, that Freedom lives!
Oh! when can Freedom die? When summer suns
No longer glow upon man's lifted brow,
Nor warm his grateful breast; when Ocean's wave
No more shall roll beneath the changing stars,
But stagnant lie—in desolate repose;
When winds forget their solemn symphonies,
And thunders break not from the gathered clouds;
When Nature shall grow weary of her life,
And thriftless of her stores—and dull Decay
O'erbrood the dying earth,—then, only then,
May human souls despair of Liberty!
No longer glow upon man's lifted brow,
Nor warm his grateful breast; when Ocean's wave
No more shall roll beneath the changing stars,
But stagnant lie—in desolate repose;
When winds forget their solemn symphonies,
And thunders break not from the gathered clouds;
When Nature shall grow weary of her life,
And thriftless of her stores—and dull Decay
O'erbrood the dying earth,—then, only then,
May human souls despair of Liberty!
Be thou, O Washington! the witness—thou
Whose memory, moonlike, sits amid our stars,
And rules their brightness with its steadier light!
Whose spirit fills the temple of our love,
And from its portals moves through all the earth;
Whose life is patriotism's chart—whose name
A Pharos burns, o'er all the future's gloom,
To guide the world to its enfranchisement.
Thee! Washington! I now invoke! Thee, Sire
And Savior of my own—my native land!
Whose memory, moonlike, sits amid our stars,
And rules their brightness with its steadier light!
Whose spirit fills the temple of our love,
And from its portals moves through all the earth;
Whose life is patriotism's chart—whose name
A Pharos burns, o'er all the future's gloom,
91
Thee! Washington! I now invoke! Thee, Sire
And Savior of my own—my native land!
Shall it not come?—shall not the hallowed strife,
Of living Man with the dead nightmare shape
Of kingly craft, soon shake the orient world?
Shall not that cruel Moloch, at whose shrine
(Girt with the tyrants of all time) the Earth
Too long hath bowed, and offered up her best
And bravest children in sad hecatombs,—
Oh! shall not this false idol, Royalty,
Be hurled forever from its bloody seat,
And Man, the Patriot, own but God—the Sire?
Of living Man with the dead nightmare shape
Of kingly craft, soon shake the orient world?
Shall not that cruel Moloch, at whose shrine
(Girt with the tyrants of all time) the Earth
Too long hath bowed, and offered up her best
And bravest children in sad hecatombs,—
Oh! shall not this false idol, Royalty,
Be hurled forever from its bloody seat,
And Man, the Patriot, own but God—the Sire?
Command it, Heaven! assert it, Earth! O pray,
Ye suffering millions! that the Hope, so long
Nourished in secret—wildly uttered forth—
Wounded too oft in vainly-daring strife,
But never wholly crushed,—may yet find tongue,
And arm, and soul, to gauge its awful strength,
And clothe it grandly in immortal Deeds!
Ye suffering millions! that the Hope, so long
Nourished in secret—wildly uttered forth—
Wounded too oft in vainly-daring strife,
But never wholly crushed,—may yet find tongue,
And arm, and soul, to gauge its awful strength,
And clothe it grandly in immortal Deeds!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |