The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
 |
TO SIR JOHN HANMER, ON FIRST READING HIS SONNETS,
|
 |
|
 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
109
TO SIR JOHN HANMER, ON FIRST READING HIS SONNETS,
JULY, 1842.
O Hanmer, simple “Hanmer:”—nobler far
As such without addition, than for all
Of wealth or name aristocratical,
Thine ancestors have left thee: for these are,
Though thine, yet not of thee! another star
Of Poesy, that makes old lights look small,
In thee hath risen—thou hast had a call—
Thy name is in the Muses' calendar!
I cannot bring thee deathless bays, but yet
Accept this poor “Forgetmenot” from me,
To twine therewith, when thou shalt simply be
Hanmer the “Poet,” not the Baronet—
When, save the “Man,” thy fellow-men forget
All else, and honor not thy “name,” but “thee!”
As such without addition, than for all
Of wealth or name aristocratical,
Thine ancestors have left thee: for these are,
Though thine, yet not of thee! another star
Of Poesy, that makes old lights look small,
In thee hath risen—thou hast had a call—
Thy name is in the Muses' calendar!
I cannot bring thee deathless bays, but yet
Accept this poor “Forgetmenot” from me,
To twine therewith, when thou shalt simply be
Hanmer the “Poet,” not the Baronet—
When, save the “Man,” thy fellow-men forget
All else, and honor not thy “name,” but “thee!”
Thou hast a soul too wide for party-claims—
Then wear not thou a mask upon the face
Of thy Humanity, to suit mere place
And time—God sent thee here for higher aims
Than these—to add another to those names,
Those calm, enduring names, whose deeper trace,
Like a bright star far-shining through all space,
The nothingness of earthly objects shames!
O thou, who art a poet, do not think
That the world's glories can with this compare;
O thou, whose lips are privileged to drink
At the Castalian fount, take thou no care
Of earthly goods, nor from thy calling shrink,
But let the Muse thee wholly hers declare!
Then wear not thou a mask upon the face
Of thy Humanity, to suit mere place
And time—God sent thee here for higher aims
Than these—to add another to those names,
Those calm, enduring names, whose deeper trace,
Like a bright star far-shining through all space,
The nothingness of earthly objects shames!
O thou, who art a poet, do not think
That the world's glories can with this compare;
O thou, whose lips are privileged to drink
At the Castalian fount, take thou no care
Of earthly goods, nor from thy calling shrink,
But let the Muse thee wholly hers declare!
110
Hear me, not for myself, but for the sake
Of that dear Land, to which we both belong
Alike: which hearkens to thine early song,
As to the lark who doth the morning wake—
The new Morn, which e'en now doth overtake
The heels of Darkness! do not so much wrong
Thyself, who art of voice and wing so strong,
As to neglect what God thy task would make—
Man made thee “Baronet,” God made thee “Man:”
Then be what He hath made thee, before all!
The Muse has given thee wings of wider span,
And gifted thee with voice prophetical,
That thou the chaff of Custom so might'st fan
Away, and still be ready at her call!
Of that dear Land, to which we both belong
Alike: which hearkens to thine early song,
As to the lark who doth the morning wake—
The new Morn, which e'en now doth overtake
The heels of Darkness! do not so much wrong
Thyself, who art of voice and wing so strong,
As to neglect what God thy task would make—
Man made thee “Baronet,” God made thee “Man:”
Then be what He hath made thee, before all!
The Muse has given thee wings of wider span,
And gifted thee with voice prophetical,
That thou the chaff of Custom so might'st fan
Away, and still be ready at her call!
It is no venal tongue would urge thee on—
The gall of Envy rankles not on it:
Foul-breath'd Detraction doth not on it sit,
Mocking Men's merits with Comparison
Invidious, and blurring things best done
With slimy traces of malignant wit;
And turning what was made to benefit
To poison, that what it enjoys not, none
Beside may taste—not such vile tongue is mine—
Unenvious as the lark, I lift my song
To greet the dawning of thy light divine,
Which doth our day of poesy prolong;
Grieved only that it is of wing not strong
Enough to reach those lyric heights of thine!
The gall of Envy rankles not on it:
Foul-breath'd Detraction doth not on it sit,
Mocking Men's merits with Comparison
Invidious, and blurring things best done
With slimy traces of malignant wit;
And turning what was made to benefit
To poison, that what it enjoys not, none
Beside may taste—not such vile tongue is mine—
Unenvious as the lark, I lift my song
To greet the dawning of thy light divine,
Which doth our day of poesy prolong;
Grieved only that it is of wing not strong
Enough to reach those lyric heights of thine!
111
Go on then, noble Poet: and all praise
And good be with thee still unto the end;
Thy steps make music on the Earth, and lend
Fresh sweetness to her yet untrodden ways!
And, where thy lyre has but rested, bays
Memorial spring, as Nature so would send
A token after it, and thenceforth blend
With her eternal growths thy deathless lays!
Go on, and, like the Morning, carry light,
And songs, and gladness, with thee through the earth;
A new Castalian fount, both deep and bright,
Hast thou called forth—Oh there shall be no dearth
Of Poesy: the stream shall gather might,
Which flows so strong already at its birth!
And good be with thee still unto the end;
Thy steps make music on the Earth, and lend
Fresh sweetness to her yet untrodden ways!
And, where thy lyre has but rested, bays
Memorial spring, as Nature so would send
A token after it, and thenceforth blend
With her eternal growths thy deathless lays!
Go on, and, like the Morning, carry light,
And songs, and gladness, with thee through the earth;
A new Castalian fount, both deep and bright,
Hast thou called forth—Oh there shall be no dearth
Of Poesy: the stream shall gather might,
Which flows so strong already at its birth!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |