 | Poems by Two Brothers |  |
v
['Tis sweet to lead from stage to stage]
'Tis sweet to lead from stage to stage,
Like infancy to a maturer age,
The fleeting thoughts that crowd quick Fancy's view,
And the coy image into form to woo;
Till all its charms to life and shape awake,
Wrought to the finest polish they can take:
Now out of sight the crafty Proteus steals,
The mind's quick emissaries at his heels,
Its nature now a partial light reveals.
Each moment's labour, easier than before,
Embodies the illusive image more;
Brings it more closely underneath the eye,
And lends it form and palpability.
What late in shadowy vision fleeted by,
Receives at each essay a deepening dye;
Till diction gives us, modell'd into song,
The fairy phantoms of the motley throng;
Detaining and elucidating well
Her airy embryos with binding spell;
For when the mind reflects its image true—
Sees its own aim—expression must ensue;
If all but language is supplied before,
She quickly follows, and the task is o'er.
Thus when the hand of pyrotechnic skill
Has stor'd the spokes of the fantastic wheel,
Apply the flame—it spreads as is design'd,
And glides and lightens o'er the track defin'd;
Unerring on its faithful pathway burns,
Searches each nook, and tracks its thousand turns;
The well-fill'd tubes in flexile flame arrays,
And fires each winding of the pregnant maze;
Feeding on prompt materials, spurns delay,
Till o'er the whole the lambent glories play.
I know no joy so well deserves the name,
None that more justly may that title claim,
Than that of which the Poet is possess'd
When warm imagination fires his breast,
And countless images like claimants throng,
Prompting the ardent ecstacy of song.
He walks his study in a dreaming mood,
Like Pythia's priestess panting with the god;
His varying brow, betraying what he feels,
The labour of his plastic mind reveals:
Now roughly furrow'd into anxious storms,
If with much toil his lab'ring lines he forms;
Now brightening into triumph as, the skein
Unravelling, he cons them o'er again,
As each correction of his favourite piece
Confers more smoothness, elegance, or ease.
Like infancy to a maturer age,
The fleeting thoughts that crowd quick Fancy's view,
And the coy image into form to woo;
Till all its charms to life and shape awake,
Wrought to the finest polish they can take:
Now out of sight the crafty Proteus steals,
The mind's quick emissaries at his heels,
Its nature now a partial light reveals.
Each moment's labour, easier than before,
Embodies the illusive image more;
Brings it more closely underneath the eye,
And lends it form and palpability.
What late in shadowy vision fleeted by,
Receives at each essay a deepening dye;
Till diction gives us, modell'd into song,
The fairy phantoms of the motley throng;
Detaining and elucidating well
Her airy embryos with binding spell;
xii
Sees its own aim—expression must ensue;
If all but language is supplied before,
She quickly follows, and the task is o'er.
Thus when the hand of pyrotechnic skill
Has stor'd the spokes of the fantastic wheel,
Apply the flame—it spreads as is design'd,
And glides and lightens o'er the track defin'd;
Unerring on its faithful pathway burns,
Searches each nook, and tracks its thousand turns;
The well-fill'd tubes in flexile flame arrays,
And fires each winding of the pregnant maze;
Feeding on prompt materials, spurns delay,
Till o'er the whole the lambent glories play.
I know no joy so well deserves the name,
None that more justly may that title claim,
Than that of which the Poet is possess'd
When warm imagination fires his breast,
And countless images like claimants throng,
Prompting the ardent ecstacy of song.
He walks his study in a dreaming mood,
Like Pythia's priestess panting with the god;
His varying brow, betraying what he feels,
The labour of his plastic mind reveals:
Now roughly furrow'd into anxious storms,
If with much toil his lab'ring lines he forms;
xiii
Unravelling, he cons them o'er again,
As each correction of his favourite piece
Confers more smoothness, elegance, or ease.
Such are the sweets of song—and in this age,
Perchance too many in its lists engage;
And they who now would fain awake the lyre,
May swell this supernumerary choir:
But ye, who deign to read, forget t' apply
The searching microscope of scrutiny:
Few from too near inspection fail to lose,
Distance on all a mellowing haze bestows;
And who is not indebted to that aid
Which throws his failures into welcome shade?
Perchance too many in its lists engage;
And they who now would fain awake the lyre,
May swell this supernumerary choir:
But ye, who deign to read, forget t' apply
The searching microscope of scrutiny:
Few from too near inspection fail to lose,
Distance on all a mellowing haze bestows;
And who is not indebted to that aid
Which throws his failures into welcome shade?
C.T.
| Poems by Two Brothers | |