Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In olden time the Poet sang,
The ancient hall with ballads rang,
Wandering he touched the golden lyre,
By the ancestral Castle's fire,
A sacred man the Poet then,
Beloved by gods, beloved by men.

Afar the Shepherd on the hill,
Saw from his height this child of skill,
And straightway left his flock to go
And greet the bard who moved below,
The stern mechanic left his work,
His hammer fell not on the berk.

The gentle ladies sat and heard
The ditties of the tuneful bird,
With fine regard they greeted him;
He sang,—their soft eyes swam so dim
They often wept; the Poet's song
To the heart's secret did belong.

The Poets recked not for their fare,
Their comfort was the People's care;
They sang,—the doors were open wide,
They loved,—the nation dowered the Bride,
They saw the wealth around them flow
Of princes,—'tis no longer so.

The wandering Bard no city claims,
The nation loves not poet's aims,
A lonely man he bides afar,
His halls are fields, his lamp a star,
Nature's so regal, she does wait
And minister his ancient state.

The Brook must be his mirror now,
His organ in the dark Pine-bough,

For ladies' eyes the flowerets dyes,
The southern rain his lady's sighs,
The grass the carpet of his Hall,
The trees its pillars smooth and tall.

Few doors are open if he sings,
Faint welcome with his lyre he brings,
Cold eyes avert from him their gaze,
The world suspects his idle ways,
He sits not on the hearth so wide,
For Priest and Clerk him thrust aside.

Now few can comprehend his way,
The haze has overspread his day,
Forgotten, stands he quite apart,—
The life-blood of the Nation's heart,
He sings alone, the crowds go by,
And question him with curious eye.

O world, thou hast the Poet's art
Thyself,—he counterfeits thy part,
And of his age the Poet's lyre,
Is instrument of pure desire,

Most joyful let the Poet be,
It is through him that all men see.

Not ever falls the Sunshine clear,
And heavy clouds obscure the mere,
Not ever is the fruit-tree proud,
For worms weave oft its yellow shroud,
Yet smiles the sky, the tree comes green,
The Poet shall be heard and seen.

My country, in thy early hour,
I feel the magic of thy power,
Thy hands are strong, thy aims are long,
To thee the Poets shall belong,
I mark thy pride in them, and they
Shall sing thee in heroic lay.

For in thy stature there is strength,
And in thy aims an endless length,
And Bards shall praise thy features fair,
And Poesy fill all the air,
Clear as thy dazzling sunshines are,
Deep as thy forests waving far.