 | The Burden of the Bell and Other Lyrics |  |
105
A SONG OF THE SMALL POETS.
BY A DISSENTIENT MEMBER OF THEIR FRATERNITY.
“The little dainty Poet,
Kneeling in his soft cushion on the hearth,
And patted on the head by passing maids,
Who would discourage him? Enough to say
That slender twigs send forth the fiercest flame
Not without noise, but ashes soon succeed.”
Landor.
Kneeling in his soft cushion on the hearth,
And patted on the head by passing maids,
Who would discourage him? Enough to say
That slender twigs send forth the fiercest flame
Not without noise, but ashes soon succeed.”
Landor.
“We are the men of the age,” say they,—
“We are the men, and the movers we;
So we sing, and sing the livelong day,
And the world is swayed by our minstrelsy.
Let the shallow statesman fume and fuss,
And boast of the changes, wrought..by us!
Is the wrong made right? Does the dark turn bright?
Is the world o'erspread with a clearer light?
You'll find the secret of all ere long,
In the under-current, deep and strong,
In the stress of our overwhelming song.
Kings may make edicts, and schoolmen write,
And the sword of the soldier be bared in fight,
But aha!—who winneth the victory?
We're the men of the age and the movers we!
“We are the men, and the movers we;
So we sing, and sing the livelong day,
And the world is swayed by our minstrelsy.
Let the shallow statesman fume and fuss,
And boast of the changes, wrought..by us!
Is the wrong made right? Does the dark turn bright?
Is the world o'erspread with a clearer light?
You'll find the secret of all ere long,
In the under-current, deep and strong,
In the stress of our overwhelming song.
Kings may make edicts, and schoolmen write,
And the sword of the soldier be bared in fight,
But aha!—who winneth the victory?
We're the men of the age and the movers we!
106
True, the fire on our hearths is but dim, and worse,
Very starved and empty seemeth our purse;
And the world, that reapeth the fruit of all,
Giveth scanty honour and payment small:
But we reck not of this,—if we still sing on
The fame and the guerdon will come anon;
The sage of the future times shall tell
How we laboured long and laboured well,—
And how all the glory that befel
Was brought about by our wondrous rhyme,
That shall never be hushed till the end of time.
Then the world shall build us statues fair,
And our praise shall be shouted everywhere,
Till the truth doth triumph, and all agree
That we were the men, and the workers we.”
Very starved and empty seemeth our purse;
And the world, that reapeth the fruit of all,
Giveth scanty honour and payment small:
But we reck not of this,—if we still sing on
The fame and the guerdon will come anon;
The sage of the future times shall tell
How we laboured long and laboured well,—
And how all the glory that befel
Was brought about by our wondrous rhyme,
That shall never be hushed till the end of time.
Then the world shall build us statues fair,
And our praise shall be shouted everywhere,
Till the truth doth triumph, and all agree
That we were the men, and the workers we.”
So sang they;—while Time, methought, stood by,
With a cruel wink in his stony eye.
His crooked scythe, all jagged and bare,
That he smites great hearts with, was not there,—
But he held in his hand what you might infer
To be a sort of extinguisher;
And while that bevy of little men
Croaked loud as an army of frogs in a fen,
He would single out one, and then another,—
Let fall his hand—lo! a sudden smother,
A spirt, like that which a candle utters
When just at the last it flares and gutters!
And behold!—ah! how shall my spirit breathe it?
When Time's fierce chuckle sounded amain,
And the weapon of death was raised again,
There was nought but a snuff beneath it!
—But I marked that ever and anon,
Though they vanished thus, the chaunt went on,
And the vacant seats were one and all
Soon filled by new men, just as small;
And the latest sound that reached my ear
Was the chirp of their treble, shrill and clear,
As they piped and crowed in their maudlin glee,
“We're the men of the age, and the movers we!”
With a cruel wink in his stony eye.
His crooked scythe, all jagged and bare,
That he smites great hearts with, was not there,—
But he held in his hand what you might infer
To be a sort of extinguisher;
And while that bevy of little men
Croaked loud as an army of frogs in a fen,
He would single out one, and then another,—
Let fall his hand—lo! a sudden smother,
107
When just at the last it flares and gutters!
And behold!—ah! how shall my spirit breathe it?
When Time's fierce chuckle sounded amain,
And the weapon of death was raised again,
There was nought but a snuff beneath it!
—But I marked that ever and anon,
Though they vanished thus, the chaunt went on,
And the vacant seats were one and all
Soon filled by new men, just as small;
And the latest sound that reached my ear
Was the chirp of their treble, shrill and clear,
As they piped and crowed in their maudlin glee,
“We're the men of the age, and the movers we!”
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