University of Virginia Library

Is thy heart right, as my heart is with thine,
Brother which movest thus from page to page
Thy keen clear eyes in pleasure or in blame?

Thou art not dabbled with the old deceits
Concerning Genius; thou wouldst never dare
Lay a cold finger on the lips of Thought,
Unless she spake of sin,—or bitterly
E'en the youngest minstrel and most mean
Stamp the mail'd foot of pride.

There were who held
Parnassus slopes not, but is steep and smooth
Like a storm-riven spar; that whom the top
Receives not in imperishable heavens,
Must wallow at the roots—in foolish slime
Sputtering their lives away, or grovelling
In odious filth of imitative rage
And adulation of those supreme bards
Unspeakably above. But are there not
Slow gentle grades among the sons of song
As in the men of action? There are some,—
Great prophet-chiefs, girt with nobility
And wisdom as a robe,—ambassadors
Sent forth to preach of excellence and God
To the total world—whose full impassion'd eyes
Blaze thro' a stormy cataract of hair
Like suns behind a shower—whose ardent lips
Part round their uttering music like warm clouds
About those suns at eve—whose master-souls
Stand like huge organs in the vaulted aisles
Of this cathedral-world, and royally
Roll their rich anthems to the rumbling roofs
And shake the carven columns into awe:
These are most catholic; each stammering soul
And hoarse gives heed to them, and joys to hear
The mute chaotic meaning of its thought
Sublimely shaped in words. As down the slope
Of that huge crag the broad black fathomless bulk
Of waters rolls stupendous, and anon
Over the horrid edge a fretful dome
Of boiling billows shoots amazed and booms
Down thro' the far dim gulfs of shuddering mist
A shock of solid thunder,—with such voice
They to the Earth appeal, and all the Earth
Gives answer; and how much of Heaven besides
We know not yet: they thro' their several age
Bursting, like manhood thro' the garb of youth,
Do make the plastic Future populous
With likeness of themselves; nor only fill
With their sweet floods the narrow gorge of Time,
But haply brim its jealous lips and sweep
Expansive floods adventurous o'er the fields
And broad savannahs of Eternity.

And there are some whose lesser spirits meek
Hang like lone harps among the groves of Thought,
Untended and untuned; whose flaccid chords—
Or bristled with a rime of frozen tears,
Or moist with vernal juices—the vague winds
Usurp at moments, and fro' the clotted strings
Clash out some shrill imperfect utterance
Of gusty music. Not without a use,
If yet unselfish, these sequester'd bards
Unknown to splendid influence and to fame:
Not unevoked of that one Providence
Who slopes the ascent of things, their inner sweets
Soak thro' the thin crust of the soul, and melt
In dews upon the surface; for behold,
Born like instinctive frosts along the sway'd
And rustling mere, their starry flakes arise,
Each in his unknown origin apart,
And freeze and strengthen thro' the long blue night
More thickly and more near, until they fuse
And sheet the smooth'd circumference of Life
With beauty and with good.

If in that film
And galaxy of sheeny points, obscure
And sombre when alone, thou think of me
As most minute, I pray thee from the halls
Of thy shut soul come forth to meet my words
With looks of brotherhood; nor take it ill
If in the ardent morning of this life
The shadow of my spirit reach to thee.

I have no friend nor counsellor—I stand
Alone amid the crude results of thought,
And know not where to turn: but this I know—
If it have aught of pardon or excuse
To be of earnest purpose and sincere—
With Pythian voice to utter out the things
We feel and know; if, just about to be,
The young perplexities of Being seem
A tale for others' ears: if it be well
The brotherly communicative Man
Should love his country and his age, and strive
To scent the air about him—strive to keep
Unsoil'd, unshred, the blessed flower-cup
That makes a casket for the mourner's tears,
The paradise of comfort unto which
All human hearts do yearn, all intellects
Unclouded soar and seek to as a bourne—
The glory of the Bible; if to tell
How fond a Father to the childlike Earth,
How grand and lovely is the God of grace:
If there be aught of excellent desire
Or old ennobling chivalry of aim
In this, thou wilt not mock me nor despise.
For I am but as thou art, being young—
A nude and vagrant soul, whereon the grasp
Of vigilant Life hath scarcely laid as yet
Her prison-garments; hath not laced her up
In prejudice of place, or galling coil
Of prim Convention; nor hath graced with strength
And concentration, which all special ways
Give to the men that walk them: a crude soul,
That could not stand beneath the beetling Past,
Nor watch the wondrous doings of To-day,
Nor hear the thunder of the workmen's tools
Developing the Future, without keen
And glowing eyes, and something like a wish
To let the little pitcher from her arm
And give to drink, if any at his work
Do choose to sip refreshment such as this.
Behold, the time is short—the failing stars
Move but a little way before they die
Into the blazing hours of the dawn:
We are not poets long; the stubborn thews
And sinewy muscles of the perfect man
Begin to thicken thro' our frame, and weave
Under the changed complexion of fresh youth
A knotted web of tough and brawny strength
Thro' all our supple limbs: so let us speak
Before the clear soprano of our voice
Breaks into bass, and buoyant Poesy
Is merged and kneaded with the coarser stuff
That feeds us in our struggle thro' the world.

Take then, O brother! with a brother's heart
The little flowers I give: and if for thee
They bear a worth—if ever to thine eyes
They bring the smile that hails a kindred thought
Or chronicles a new, O leave them not
Without a meed of blessing or of prayer
For me, which from the spirit of the just
Availeth much: And thou, strange sister-soul,—
Woman unknown—if thou at all from me
Dost learn to shut the odorous doors of self
About thee, musing in that paradise
Of thy high nature, and the prophecies
That went before on thee, and what large dues
Do lie upon thy glorious Womanhood,
And by what workings thou shalt best become
A mated help for Man,—if this be so,
Gather my cluster'd thoughts, and take them up
Like fruit between thine argent fingers moist,
And drop them thro' sweet juicy lips, to melt
(Holpen of thine appreciative sense
And fertile spirit) thro' thy healthful being
And texture of thy daily life, and be
A homely wisdom to thee, and a joy.

So from afar should I in venturous thought
See small effects, and beautiful as small,
Even from these rude lays; and dignify
My life by hope, with blind inquiring touch
Fingering the faces of all unknown friends:
So may for you all highest excellence
Of knowledge—all imaginative joys—
All household bliss—all pure intelligent love,
Woman's or man's, which is most heavenly
Being most human—all desires that cling
To Nature's breast as to a mother's—all
True hallow'd faith, all boundless charity
And strong resolves to weed the stifled world
Of sins and sorrows—yea, all inner grace
And holiest boons and benisons of God,
Be with your souls for evermore—Farewell!