 | Brother Fabian's Manuscript |  |
O Master, O true Friend! I cannot borrow
The bitter laurels of a fabulous sorrow
To strew thy bier withal! The word I speak
This night is one I must! If all too weak,
Thou wilt forgive me! There be times and moods
That slay the soul with silence. When the floods
Yawn for Arion, he must sing or die!
O well is he, whose numerous verse and high
To his whole thought can then give utterance meet,
And speak the word that saves,—for ever sweet,
Sweet, and for ever strong!
O Thou, if e'er of old, dread Soul of song,
This night speak with me once again! Ere yet
My life slope downward to the suns that set,—
Now, ere the brain wax feeble, and the heart
Unlearn its youthful madness;—ere mine Art
Slip from me like the glory from a cloud,
Leaving me dark, a melancholy shroud
Of dead imaginations; yet once more
Give me this night to soar
Beyond these visible shows which men deem Life,
Thither, where mortal sorrow, pain and strife,
And toil and turmoil seem but as they are,
Mere dreams fast fleeting. Yea, if e'er thy star
I have sought devoutly, if nor lust of Fame,
Nor lust of Gold,—far other, yet the same,—
Have marred the song I brought Thee in old time,
Grant me that this my rhyme,
Though wintry pale the blossoms of my wreath,
And dashed with dews of Death,
Live, not unworthy, on that deathless head!
The bitter laurels of a fabulous sorrow
To strew thy bier withal! The word I speak
This night is one I must! If all too weak,
Thou wilt forgive me! There be times and moods
That slay the soul with silence. When the floods
Yawn for Arion, he must sing or die!
O well is he, whose numerous verse and high
To his whole thought can then give utterance meet,
And speak the word that saves,—for ever sweet,
Sweet, and for ever strong!
251
This night speak with me once again! Ere yet
My life slope downward to the suns that set,—
Now, ere the brain wax feeble, and the heart
Unlearn its youthful madness;—ere mine Art
Slip from me like the glory from a cloud,
Leaving me dark, a melancholy shroud
Of dead imaginations; yet once more
Give me this night to soar
Beyond these visible shows which men deem Life,
Thither, where mortal sorrow, pain and strife,
And toil and turmoil seem but as they are,
Mere dreams fast fleeting. Yea, if e'er thy star
I have sought devoutly, if nor lust of Fame,
Nor lust of Gold,—far other, yet the same,—
Have marred the song I brought Thee in old time,
Grant me that this my rhyme,
Though wintry pale the blossoms of my wreath,
And dashed with dews of Death,
Live, not unworthy, on that deathless head!
| Brother Fabian's Manuscript | |