 | The In-Gathering |  |
v
TO A LADY.
Brilliant but burning not—such is thy wit;Or if it wound, it wounds like Love; and all
Thy repartees are Cupid's shafts; and, lit
With the soft gleam of his sweet eye-glance, fall
With a subduing, yet a cheering flame,
Even like the glorious spirit whence they came,
Which with thine eyes they struggle to proclaim.
Thy spirit is an eagle, and doth soar
To kindle its keen glance at the mid-sun;
And all thy thoughts are eaglets, and the core
Of thy deep heart their nest; and they have won,
From the bright orb they commune with, that keen
Vision which dazzles where thy great smile flashes;
And common spirits fear thee, and do screen
Their owlet gaze beneath their leaden lashes,
And deem themselves the wise—dull wisdom theirs!
—For me, I love to see thee rise, and dare
And triumph, and breathe-in celestial airs,
And wave thy pennons in the solar glare,
Turning them all to gold. I'll mate thee there,
For 'tis where I delight to be—have been—
Though I am a thing of moodiness, and droop
Even in the midst of conquest or of hope,
Now full of fancy, now without a thought,
Silent and strengthless—daring then again,
Suddenly vigorous, and freshly wrought
vi
Subdued, not yielding: but if otherwise,
I clap my wings, and hector in the skies
Over the fallen. What, and are we blamed
For these our feats, and fondness for them! Well.
What then? Why blame? Their spirits are not framed
For such high eleutherian strife; that spell
Which makes them fear, nerves us but all the more.
We triumph where they tremble,—they whose lore
Would teach us their calm prudence. Let it pass.
Thy wit and mine I've canvassed. Now, a glass,
Or a clear fountain for a mirror—come!
What see'st thou there? Worthy of such a mind,
A majesty of mien, fit for the home
Of intellect so mighty, soul enshrined
In plastic heaven's divinest workmanship
That ever graced the earth, and claimed the lip
Of praise, and eye of wonder. Awful love
Is thine, and man adores. The theme's above
My blazon—and I worship. From thy state
Look down, and on thy nameless votary,
Who thus inscribes such lofty vows to thee,
Smile with sublime approval; and his fate
Henceforth shall bless thee—and his gentler rhyme
Sacrifice doves, not eagles, the next time.
| The In-Gathering | |