 | Ochil Idylls and Other Poems |  |
129
THE APOLOGY TO APOLLO.
He bursts upon me in a blaze of gold,
Filling the narrow chamber where I write
With his great genial presence, warm and bright,
And simultaneous laughter, frank and bold,
From the large fountain of his heart outroll'd
In rippling radiancy! A mad delight
Intoxicates my soul for instant flight
To the far hill-tops with him, as of old.
Filling the narrow chamber where I write
With his great genial presence, warm and bright,
And simultaneous laughter, frank and bold,
From the large fountain of his heart outroll'd
In rippling radiancy! A mad delight
Intoxicates my soul for instant flight
To the far hill-tops with him, as of old.
What is there here, in this confining room,
With which to entertain a visitant
Whose glance takes in a hemisphere? for whom
Europe in all her woods is jubilant,
The widths of both Americas a-bloom,
And an Atlantic leaping ministrant?
With which to entertain a visitant
Whose glance takes in a hemisphere? for whom
Europe in all her woods is jubilant,
The widths of both Americas a-bloom,
And an Atlantic leaping ministrant?
Will this small valley, pictured on the wall,
With two-inch mountains, and a six-inch lake,
On which a vein of silver seems to break
Where, in the original, leaps a waterfall—
Will this poor sketch compensate him for all
His valleys?
With two-inch mountains, and a six-inch lake,
On which a vein of silver seems to break
Where, in the original, leaps a waterfall—
Will this poor sketch compensate him for all
His valleys?
130
Yes, he cries, it will! I take
A pleasure in your picture for your sake,
And gladly look upon it,—poor and small,
Scentless and silent, tho' the copy be,
And dead! for much I miss the rustling bend
Of grass, the grace of moving bird and tree,
And little bee, bearing from end to end
Of the live lake the sound of summer.
A pleasure in your picture for your sake,
And gladly look upon it,—poor and small,
Scentless and silent, tho' the copy be,
And dead! for much I miss the rustling bend
Of grass, the grace of moving bird and tree,
And little bee, bearing from end to end
Of the live lake the sound of summer.
See!
I cried; they live when loving lips commend.
I cried; they live when loving lips commend.
Whereat Apollo laugh'd, and all the air
Rippled with radiant gold. Then, stooping down
Upon my lines the splendour of his crown
Familiarly, he cried, What have you there?
And I blush'd forth, Forgive me that I dare
Here to record in rime, not for renown,
But wholly for the dwellers in the town,
Our summer jaunts and joys, and how we fare.
Rippled with radiant gold. Then, stooping down
Upon my lines the splendour of his crown
Familiarly, he cried, What have you there?
And I blush'd forth, Forgive me that I dare
Here to record in rime, not for renown,
But wholly for the dwellers in the town,
Our summer jaunts and joys, and how we fare.
And this is then what you call poetry?
Cried Phœbus, frowning with a grand disdain;
And I, that fling o'er hill and valley free
The bright creations of my golden brain,
Am to be hoarded, harvested by thee,
Who know'st to give the chaff and keep the grain.
Cried Phœbus, frowning with a grand disdain;
And I, that fling o'er hill and valley free
The bright creations of my golden brain,
Am to be hoarded, harvested by thee,
Who know'st to give the chaff and keep the grain.
131
O mighty Phœbus! (on my knees I fell)
There is no poet in the world like thee:
Thou spread'st thy light—Night and her phantoms flee,
And that is paradise that was a hell!
Thou mak'st each morn the mountains—high they swell
And stedfast; but the stately clouds are free,
Thy royal argosies. Thou smil'st, and see!
Uplaughs the rill, and dances down the dell.
Thou art the poet of the poets: they
Are but thy poor interpreters.
There is no poet in the world like thee:
Thou spread'st thy light—Night and her phantoms flee,
And that is paradise that was a hell!
Thou mak'st each morn the mountains—high they swell
And stedfast; but the stately clouds are free,
Thy royal argosies. Thou smil'st, and see!
Uplaughs the rill, and dances down the dell.
Thou art the poet of the poets: they
Are but thy poor interpreters.
But why,
Cried Phœbus, darkening, do ye stop the way?
Stand from between the people and the sky!
Cried Phœbus, darkening, do ye stop the way?
Stand from between the people and the sky!
Alas! said I, they will not look; they say
They cannot see but with a shaded eye.
They cannot see but with a shaded eye.
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