University of Virginia Library

[I, a poor actor, paid to please a throng,—]

I, a poor actor, paid to please a throng,—
Painted and plumed in all the pride of song;
I, that have brought these mercenary strains
Whose every couplet clanks its golden chains;
I, self-enrolled among the shining set
That outrage virtue with their “Muse to let;”
Have I no visions, as again I rise
And read my welcome in your waiting eyes?
Fresh from the hills that feed with icy springs
Rough brakes that rustle with the wild-bird's wings;
From solemn woodlands where in awful shade,
Heaped with green mounds, the forest kings are laid,
While round their graves the bleeding maples flow,
And mourning hemlocks droop in weeds of wo;
From groves of glossy beech the wood thrush fills
In the dim twilight with his rapturous trills;
From sweet still pastures, cropped by nodding kine,
Their noon-tide tent the century-counting pine;
From the brown stream along whose winding shore
Each sleepy inlet knows my resting oar;
From the broad meadows, where the mowers pass
Their scythes slow-breathing through the feathered grass;
From tawny rye-fields, where the cradler strikes
With whistling crash among the bearded spikes;
Fresh from such glories, how shall I forget
My summer's day-dream, now the sun is set?
And ah! too well my burning cheek betrays
I too have clasped the jewelled cup of praise;
The cup, once tasted, like the reveller's draught,
The lip still clings to, till its dregs are quaffed.
These reverend sires, with wrinkled front severe,
Fain would I win to pardon all they hear;
These dry, hot souls, inflamed by angry tongues,
Scorched with the furnace-blast from fiery lungs,
With liquid verse I long to soothe and cool.
And lead them, grateful, from its healing pool.
These rose-lipped daughters of the younger time,
Whose nicer ear is fed with daintiest rhyme,
Whose youthful eyes, half-threatening while they shine,
Must lend the light they cannot ask from mine.
Still would I please, if yet the power remain;
Say not, sweet listeners, that I long in vain!
The Heart's own Secret! How a single word
Would tell our history,—and we die unheard!
When Love's dear witchery makes us more than kind;
When Friendship lifts the flood-gates of the mind;
When the red wine-cup brings its half-eclipse,
And the heart's night-birds flutter round the lips;
That single word the faithful traitors shun:
Tell follies, sins, and secrets,—all but ONE.
Behold the simple thread that intertwines
Its sober strand along my pictured lines.