The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| I. | I. CHRIST, AND THE POET
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
119
I. CHRIST, AND THE POET
Satan.
O poet, in whose brain and heart the sweetness
Of summer reigns and glows,
What bars thy life from rounding to completeness?
Where findest thou thy foes?
Of summer reigns and glows,
What bars thy life from rounding to completeness?
Where findest thou thy foes?
Thy foes are surely in the heavens above thee;
God gazes down with scorn:—
The golden stars and golden blossoms love thee,
And the bright clouds of morn.
God gazes down with scorn:—
The golden stars and golden blossoms love thee,
And the bright clouds of morn.
Upon thy side thou hast the sunset-glory;
The clouds in fiery mail.
Each snowdrop whispers thee its pet love-story;
Each crocus brings its tale.
The clouds in fiery mail.
Each snowdrop whispers thee its pet love-story;
Each crocus brings its tale.
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Thou wanderest singing by the river-edges,
And lo! the ripples pause,
And hush their love-song to the sighing sedges,
To learn thy music's laws.
And lo! the ripples pause,
And hush their love-song to the sighing sedges,
To learn thy music's laws.
Thou hast a power of endless loving-kindness,
A love of all things born.
But thee God hates. He'll close thine eyes with blindness!
He'll pierce thy brows with thorn!
A love of all things born.
But thee God hates. He'll close thine eyes with blindness!
He'll pierce thy brows with thorn!
The love of violets in the mossy hollows—
This, poet, thou shalt win:
The suffrages of the swift-wingéd swallows;
The worship of the linn.
This, poet, thou shalt win:
The suffrages of the swift-wingéd swallows;
The worship of the linn.
The pure-souled snow-white lilies shall adore thee;
The autumnal forest-glade
Shall pour its gorgeous crimson foliage o'er thee;
The summer boughs shall shade.
The autumnal forest-glade
Shall pour its gorgeous crimson foliage o'er thee;
The summer boughs shall shade.
Its rarest pearls the amorous sea shall fling thee,
Pearls gathered from its breast.
Strange priceless gems the humming-birds shall bring thee,
Trinkets of throat or crest.
Pearls gathered from its breast.
Strange priceless gems the humming-birds shall bring thee,
Trinkets of throat or crest.
121
The purple heather in the moorland regions
Shall nestle round thy feet.
The whole world's songsters, in their countless legions,
Shall own thy song more sweet.
Shall nestle round thy feet.
The whole world's songsters, in their countless legions,
Shall own thy song more sweet.
And yet, thou poet, whatsoe'er thou doest,
Thy toil shall end in gloom:
When summer skies above thee beam their bluest,
Prepare thou for the tomb!
Thy toil shall end in gloom:
When summer skies above thee beam their bluest,
Prepare thou for the tomb!
Poet.
I love the bright blue heights of air,
The sunlight in the morn:
I love to watch that diamond rare,
The dewdrop on a thorn.
I love the white clouds in the skies,
The blue waves by the land:
But bluer yet are woman's eyes,
And whiter is her hand.
The sunlight in the morn:
I love to watch that diamond rare,
The dewdrop on a thorn.
I love the white clouds in the skies,
The blue waves by the land:
But bluer yet are woman's eyes,
And whiter is her hand.
Satan.
The morning's light shall pass away,
It shall be dark at noon:
And night shall lack the golden ray
Of friendly star or moon.
Thou lovest woman? She shall prove
Thy direst bitterest woe.
She loves thee? Yes: and she can love
Thy neighbour even so!
It shall be dark at noon:
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Of friendly star or moon.
Thou lovest woman? She shall prove
Thy direst bitterest woe.
She loves thee? Yes: and she can love
Thy neighbour even so!
Poet.
My song shall reach the frail and weak:
The sad lost soul shall find
That Christ's sweet pity still can speak
To erring hearts and blind.
Of all the crowns that I can win,
This is the highest indeed—
To save one woman's soul from sin;
To guard her at her need.
The sad lost soul shall find
That Christ's sweet pity still can speak
To erring hearts and blind.
Of all the crowns that I can win,
This is the highest indeed—
To save one woman's soul from sin;
To guard her at her need.
Satan.
And having raised her quite from sin,
Watch how the affair will end.
The girl you spent your soul to win,
Your fortune to befriend,
Will—for a diamond brooch maybe,
Or for much less than this—
Barter the mouth your modesty
Did not presume to kiss.
Watch how the affair will end.
The girl you spent your soul to win,
Your fortune to befriend,
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Or for much less than this—
Barter the mouth your modesty
Did not presume to kiss.
Poet.
I'll win, please God, a noble name,
Do noble work indeed;
Speak words of thunder, words of flame,
Shake many a rotten creed.
My words shall ring from land to land,
And many a throne shall quake;
The sword shall flash from many a hand
For my strong singing's sake.
Do noble work indeed;
Speak words of thunder, words of flame,
Shake many a rotten creed.
My words shall ring from land to land,
And many a throne shall quake;
The sword shall flash from many a hand
For my strong singing's sake.
Satan.
Dream on, thou fool. The song wins less,
The nobler that it be,
The people's homage. Their caress
Is won quite easily.
Write folly, with a tinge of dirt:
You surely will succeed.
Bilge-water, through a penny squirt,—
That is the chrism they need!
The nobler that it be,
The people's homage. Their caress
Is won quite easily.
Write folly, with a tinge of dirt:
You surely will succeed.
Bilge-water, through a penny squirt,—
That is the chrism they need!
124
I'll write high poems. I will pour
Along my throbbing strain
The wild winds' wail, the thunder's roar,
The music of the main.
Though many a bard has lived and died,
Still golden sunrise gleams:
The stars shine through night's palace wide,
And fill my soul with dreams.
Along my throbbing strain
The wild winds' wail, the thunder's roar,
The music of the main.
Though many a bard has lived and died,
Still golden sunrise gleams:
The stars shine through night's palace wide,
And fill my soul with dreams.
Satan.
A dream—that is the poet's life.
But every dream shall end.
The sweetheart changes to a wife
(And then the stars descend!)
The wife developes to a scold.
The songs in which you trust
Will mix with cabbages and mould,
With cinders and with dust.
But every dream shall end.
The sweetheart changes to a wife
(And then the stars descend!)
The wife developes to a scold.
The songs in which you trust
Will mix with cabbages and mould,
With cinders and with dust.
Christ.
O poet-heart, despair not.—Know
That every song of thine
Has made some angel's spirit glow;
Yes: every noble line.
All earthly joys thou hast to miss?
Earth's hopes and passions end?
Yet is it not sufficient bliss
That Jesus calls thee “friend”?
That every song of thine
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Yes: every noble line.
All earthly joys thou hast to miss?
Earth's hopes and passions end?
Yet is it not sufficient bliss
That Jesus calls thee “friend”?
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |