University of Virginia Library

O Poet, should I wish thee
Such crowns as the world shapes, with smiling lips
For brows like thine? At noonday, when eelipse
Blots out the sun in heaven, men gaze and say,
“Great blessing art thou, Sun! until thy ray
Ceased thus untimely, certes, little thought
Was ours of all the glory thou hast brought
To this our earth. Great blessing art thou, Sun;
Great praise and worship hast thou nobly won!”
Wait, Poet, wait
Till Death doth keep his state
In thy still chambers, and upon thine eyes
His fixed immutable shadow deeply lies,—
Wait, till thou hearest afar
The seraph-anthem floating from God's heaven,
Borne on from star to star—
When life hath faded from thee like a dream,
And all the gauds of life the vilest seem,
Shall those world-crowns be given.

But, Poet, I would give thee
No scorn for such as these,—no lifting high
Of a proud forehead. Meekly, patiently,
Sing thou thy songs along the world's highways,
Putting not from thee any meed of praise
That grudging hands dole out: high task is thine;
High recompense, if worthily and well,
Thy lays, with upward aspiration, swell
The soul's brave utterance of the truth divine;—
High task, if only one poor human heart
Be raised, and cheered, and strengthened by thine art;
High recompense, if not a voice be found
I' the world to bless thee—angels catch the sound
Of the eternal truth on earthly ground,
And there is joy in heaven.
Then Poet, I would bid thee
Thus nobly work, content, for present gain,
That all the beautiful of earth's domain
Is thy great heritage:—that unto thee
A grander music soundeth from the sea,—
A richer fragrance in the flower is shrined,—
A softer murmur borne upon the wind,—
Than greeteth the world's sense—that all are fraught
With revelations to thy quickening thought;
With solemn whispers of mysterious things,
With stately fancies, fine imaginings:—
And more, O Christian Poet! that all these
Are but faint types and transient images
Of an unfading beauty, that shall be
Thine ever, through a glad eternity,
When the world's toil is o'er. Work on, work on;
Tarry not, rest not, till the crown is won
Which suiteth living brows,—the holy crown,
That, with its deathless, shadowless renown,
O Poet, I would wish thee!