University of Virginia Library

HEADS OF THE POETS.

I.—CHAUCER.

—Chaucer's healthy Muse
Did wisely one sweet instrument to choose,
The native reed; which, tutor'd with rare skill,
Brought other Muses down to aid its trill!
A cheerful song, that sometimes quaintly mask'd
The fancy, as the affections, sweetly task'd;
And won from England's proud and foreign court,
For native England's tongue, a sweet report—
And sympathy—till in due time it grew
A permanent voice that proved itself the true,
And rescued the brave language of the land
From that which help'd to strength the invader's hand!
Thus, with great patriot service, making clear
The way to other virtues quite as dear
In English liberty—which could grow alone,
When English speech grew pleasant to be known;
To spell the ears of princes, and to make
The peasant worthy for his poet's sake.

II.—SHAKSPEARE.

—'Twere hard to say
Upon what instrument did Shakspeare play—
Still harder what he did not! He had all
The orchestra at service, and could call
To use still other implements unknown,
Or only valued in his hands alone!
The Lyre, whose burning inspiration came
Still darting upward, sudden as the flame;
The murmuring wind-harp, whose melodious sighs
Seem still from hopefulest heart of love to rise,
And gladden even while grieving; the wild strain
That night-winds wake from reeds that breathe in pain,
Though breathing still in music; and that voice
Which most he did affect—whose happy choice
Made sweet flute-accents for humanity
Out of that living heart which cannot die—
The catholic, born of love, that still controls,
While man is man, the tide in human souls.

III.—THE SAME.

—His universal song
Who sung by Avon, and, with purpose strong,
Compell'd a voice from native oracles,
That still survive their altars by their spells—
Guarding with might each avenue to fame,
Where, trophied over all, glows Shakspeare's name!
The mighty master-hand in his we trace—
If erring often, never commonplace;
Forever frank and cheerful, even when woe
Commands the tear to speak, the sigh to flow;
Sweet without weakness—without storming, strong,
Jest not o'erstrain'd, nor argument too long;
Still true to reason, though intent on sport,
His wit ne'er drives his wisdom out of court;
A brooklet now, a noble stream anon,
Careering in the meadows and the sun;
A mighty ocean next, deep, far, and wide,
Earth, life, and heaven, all imaged in its tide!
Oh! when the master bends him to his art,
How the mind follows, how vibrates the heart!
The mighty grief o'ercomes us as we hear,
And the soul hurries, hungering, to the ear;
The willing nature, yielding as he sings,
Unfolds her secret and bestows her wings,
Glad of that best interpreter, whose skill
Brings hosts to worship at her sacred hill!

IV.—SPENSER.

It was for Spenser, by his quaint device,
To spiritualize the passionate, and subdue
The wild, coarse temper of the British Muse,
By meet diversion from the absolute:
To lift the fancy, and, where still the song
Proclaim'd a wild humanity, to sway
Soothingly soft, and, by fantastic wiles,
Persuade the passions to a milder clime!
His was the song of chivalry, and wrought
For like results upon society;
Artful in high degree, with plan obscure,
That mystified to lure; and, by its spells,
Making the heart forgetful of itself,
To follow out and trace its labyrinths,
In that forgetfulness made visible!
Such were the uses of his Muse; to say
How proper and how exquisite his lay—
How quaintly rich his masking—with what art
He fashions fairy realms and paints their queen,
How purely—with how delicate a skill—
It needs not, since his song is with us still!

V.—MILTON.

The master of a single instrument,
But that the Cathedral Organ, Milton sings
With drooping spheres about him, and his eye
Fix'd steadily upward, through its mortal cloud
Seeing the glories of eternity!
The sense of the invisible and the true
Still present to his soul; and, in his song,
The consciousness of duration through all time,
Of work in each condition, and of hopes
Ineffable, that well sustain through life,
Encouraging through danger and in death,
Cheering, as with a promise rich in wings!
A godlike voice, that through cathedral towers
Still rolls, prolong'd in echoes, whose deep tones
Seem born of thunder, that, subdued to music,
Soothe when they startle most! A Prophet Bard,
With utterance equal to his mission of power,
And harmonies, that, not unworthy heaven,
Might well lift earth to equal worthiness.

VI.—BURNS.

—Thither at eve,
Where Burns still wanders with his violin song;
A melancholy conqueror, in whose sway
His own irregular soul grew dark and fell,
Incapable to spell, with resolute will,
The capricious genius that, o'er all beside,
Held perfect mastery. 'Twas here he went,
A man of pride and sorrows, weak yet strong,
With still a song discoursing to the heart,
The lowly human heart, of all its joys,—
Buoyant and cheerful, yet with sadness too,
Such sadness as still shows us love through tears.

VII.—SCOTT.

—Not forgotten or denied,
Scott's trumpet lay of chivalry and pride;
Homeric in its rush, and, in its strife,
With every impulse brimming o'er with life,
Teeming with action, and the call to arms;—
A robust Dame, his muse, with martial charms,
To strive, when need demands it, or to love;—
The Eagle quite as often as the Dove.

VIII.—BYRON.

—For Byron's home and fame,
It needed manhood only! Had he known
How sorrow should be borne, nor sunk in shame,
For that his destiny decreed to moan—
His muse had been triumphant over Time
As still she is o'er Passion: still sublime—
Having subdued her soul's infirmity
To aliment; and, with herself o'ercome,
O'ercome the barriers of Eternity,
And lived through all the ages; with a sway
Complete, and unembarrass'd by the doom
That makes of Nature's porcelain common clay!

IX.—A GROUP.