 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
25
A HINT TO POETS.
As is the fuel, so the fire; small flame
Ill-fed, and with the Muse's breath too scant
To blow it to that height where it will want
But little more to keep it at the same—
A hasty fire of thorns, the Muse's shame,
O'er which its own smoke mounts predominant.
So thou go'st out like a vile snuff;—dost rant,
And take in vain the Muse's holy name!
But when the fuel's much, the fire is fierce;
It burns thro' all, and setteth all ablaze;
And, like “the burning bush,” the poet's verse
Glows in the light divine, which thro' it plays.
“A burning bush,” too, in the Universe
He sees, thro' which God shines, else a dark maze.
Ill-fed, and with the Muse's breath too scant
To blow it to that height where it will want
But little more to keep it at the same—
A hasty fire of thorns, the Muse's shame,
O'er which its own smoke mounts predominant.
So thou go'st out like a vile snuff;—dost rant,
And take in vain the Muse's holy name!
But when the fuel's much, the fire is fierce;
It burns thro' all, and setteth all ablaze;
And, like “the burning bush,” the poet's verse
Glows in the light divine, which thro' it plays.
“A burning bush,” too, in the Universe
He sees, thro' which God shines, else a dark maze.
Sow early and reap late; those furrows plough,
Those golden furrows which, at break of dawn,
Smoke and send up their incense to the morn,
Smit by the sun; who doth their tilth endow
With procreant warmth, with covenant and vow
Of harvestry, the Muse's wine and corn.
Glean where fools empty pass; think it not scorn
To ask of bee and ant: Wisdom looks low!
Lay thy ear close to earth, haply thou'lt hear
The grass grow; leastways the grasshopper's song.
“That is not much!” 'Tis all; 'tis truth of ear,
Of heart; who misses that hath something wrong.
Sow broadcast, even on the waters: fear
Thou not; 'twill come back, and tenfold, ere long!
Those golden furrows which, at break of dawn,
Smoke and send up their incense to the morn,
Smit by the sun; who doth their tilth endow
With procreant warmth, with covenant and vow
Of harvestry, the Muse's wine and corn.
Glean where fools empty pass; think it not scorn
To ask of bee and ant: Wisdom looks low!
Lay thy ear close to earth, haply thou'lt hear
The grass grow; leastways the grasshopper's song.
“That is not much!” 'Tis all; 'tis truth of ear,
Of heart; who misses that hath something wrong.
Sow broadcast, even on the waters: fear
Thou not; 'twill come back, and tenfold, ere long!
| Stones from The Quarry | |