The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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TO SIR JOHN HANMER.
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
TO SIR JOHN HANMER.
O poet with the lyric fancy, Swan,
That on the Heliconian stream of song
Warblest adown its waves, with voice both strong
And sweet, and far, like morning, in the van
Of this our darkness: with its source began
Thy strains, which, gathering, as they went along,
New powers, now, superior to wrong,
The ocean greet with corresponding span.
Soon wilt thou be afloat on that wide sea
Of poesy, far out of sight of strand
Or haven, like him whose great thought first spanned
The western World; so shall this age in thee
Find a discoverer of many-a land
Poetic, to the Muse made tributary!
That on the Heliconian stream of song
Warblest adown its waves, with voice both strong
And sweet, and far, like morning, in the van
Of this our darkness: with its source began
Thy strains, which, gathering, as they went along,
New powers, now, superior to wrong,
The ocean greet with corresponding span.
Soon wilt thou be afloat on that wide sea
Of poesy, far out of sight of strand
Or haven, like him whose great thought first spanned
The western World; so shall this age in thee
Find a discoverer of many-a land
Poetic, to the Muse made tributary!
53
I am but as the morning star, whose light
Doth usher in the day, and then is lost;
Not like the star of eve, which leads the host
Of heaven on, amongst them shining bright,
And for the service more a favorite—
But what of that: my loss is yet my boast:
That I make known a greater at my cost,
Content in him to shine, though out of sight!
Alas! how slow the world is to admit
A poet to his place among the kings
Of song, but letteth him neglected sit
Beneath the shade which his own laurel flings.
But in that mighty shade, unheard by it,
Like the great sea in the lone night, he sings!
Doth usher in the day, and then is lost;
Not like the star of eve, which leads the host
Of heaven on, amongst them shining bright,
And for the service more a favorite—
But what of that: my loss is yet my boast:
That I make known a greater at my cost,
Content in him to shine, though out of sight!
Alas! how slow the world is to admit
A poet to his place among the kings
Of song, but letteth him neglected sit
Beneath the shade which his own laurel flings.
But in that mighty shade, unheard by it,
Like the great sea in the lone night, he sings!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |