 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
90
MY MUSE, 'TIS TIME FOR MOVING.
I.
My muse, 'tis time for moving:What's here should make us stay?
Thought should be free for roving,
When Fancy would go play.
Here, Mind but works in shackles,
With never a cheer of mirth;
Wit, like the fire that crackles
Upon the pauper's hearth.
II.
We'll break these bonds of custom,And feel our wings in flight!
These routine laws, let's burst 'em,
And make of Thought delight.
It is not Thought, this bondage
To what is writ and done;
And Genius means brigandage,
Where unknown spoils are won.
III.
Sweet Fancy, we shall range ill,If, bent on noble toils,
We meet not with some angel,
And wrestle for our spoils.
There broods the Old Tradition,
A miser on yon height;
Come on, it is our mission,
To rob his trunks to-night.
91
IV.
And yon's a secret valley,And yon's a mystic grove:
On these, with sudden sally,
Their hidden wealth we'll prove.
The elves, in these, have treasures,
Deep buried from the sun;
We'll keep no timid measures,
When such are to be won.
V.
The spoils of Thought requireSuch courage as will brave
Worn saws of ancient sire,
Dull maxims of the slave;
And he who hopes to forage
In realms of Fancy still,
Must arm himself with courage
To wander where he will.
VI.
The path-ways worn and travell'd,He still eschews, and finds
In realms unblazed, ungravell'd,
New routes for other minds.
He dares—and that's Dominion;
He soars—and in his flight,
He wins an eagle pinion,
From every starry height.
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |