 | The rural muse poems |  |
94
GENIUS.
A charm appears in every land,
A voice in every clime,
That beautifies the desert sand,
And renders earth sublime.
A voice in every clime,
That beautifies the desert sand,
And renders earth sublime.
Some meet it in the poet's song,
Some in the sage's fame;
Wherever seen, it pleases long,
And Genius is its name.
Some in the sage's fame;
Wherever seen, it pleases long,
And Genius is its name.
Scott found it with the Muse at first,
A stranger to her song;
He started as the music burst
In tremors from his tongue.
A stranger to her song;
He started as the music burst
In tremors from his tongue.
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He wondered at the sounds he made,
And thought himself alone;
But by him stood that Spirit-shade
That marked him for her own;
And thought himself alone;
But by him stood that Spirit-shade
That marked him for her own;
Who smiled to see his timid hand
Pause on the sounding strings,
That echoed charms o'er sea and land
For peasants and for kings.
Pause on the sounding strings,
That echoed charms o'er sea and land
For peasants and for kings.
But Byron, like an eagle, flew
His daring flight, and won;
And looked, and felt, as though he knew
Eternity begun.
His daring flight, and won;
And looked, and felt, as though he knew
Eternity begun.
As thunder in its startled call—
As lightning from the cloud—
Seen, heard, and known above them all—
The proudest of the proud!
As lightning from the cloud—
Seen, heard, and known above them all—
The proudest of the proud!
He dared the world a war to wage,
He scorned the critics' mock,
And soared the mightiest of the age.—
The condor of the rock
He scorned the critics' mock,
And soared the mightiest of the age.—
The condor of the rock
Screamed from the dizzy Apennines,
As startled by his flight,
When Manfred sought the searing shrines
Of demons in his might.
As startled by his flight,
When Manfred sought the searing shrines
Of demons in his might.
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Fear left him to the thunder-shock,
His eyrie none could own;
The smaller birds in coveys flock—
The eagle soars alone.
His eyrie none could own;
The smaller birds in coveys flock—
The eagle soars alone.
He died, as Glory wills to die—
A martyr to its name;
A youth, in manhood's majesty,
A patriarch in fame.
A martyr to its name;
A youth, in manhood's majesty,
A patriarch in fame.
From history's visions Scott has won
A heritage sublime;
Rising a giant in the sun,
Too overgrown for Time,
A heritage sublime;
Rising a giant in the sun,
Too overgrown for Time,
Who fled to see a mortal soar,
And leave him underneath,
As one of old, his conqueror—
So sought the aid of Death,
And leave him underneath,
As one of old, his conqueror—
So sought the aid of Death,
Who lays the mighty with the low,
The humble with the brave;—
Behind his cloud the sun must go,
And Scott is in his grave.
The humble with the brave;—
Behind his cloud the sun must go,
And Scott is in his grave.
But Genius soars above the dead,
Too mighty for his power;
And deserts where his journey led,
Spell-bound, are still in flower!
Too mighty for his power;
And deserts where his journey led,
Spell-bound, are still in flower!
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By poesy kept for times unborn;
And when those times are gone,
The worth of a remoter morn
Shall find them shining on.
And when those times are gone,
The worth of a remoter morn
Shall find them shining on.
For poesy is verse or prose,
Not bound to Fashion's thrall;
No matter where true Genius grows,
'Tis beautiful in all.
Not bound to Fashion's thrall;
No matter where true Genius grows,
'Tis beautiful in all.
Or high or low, its beacon-fires
Shall rise in every way,
Till drowsy Night the blaze admires,
And startles into day—
Shall rise in every way,
Till drowsy Night the blaze admires,
And startles into day—
A day that rises like the sun
From clouds of spite and thrall,
Which gains, before its course be run,
A station seen by all.
From clouds of spite and thrall,
Which gains, before its course be run,
A station seen by all.
Its voice grows thunder's voice with age,
Till Time turns back, and looks;
Its breath embalms the flimsy page,
And gives a soul to books.
Till Time turns back, and looks;
Its breath embalms the flimsy page,
And gives a soul to books.
Through night at first it will rejoice,
And travel into day,
Pursuing, with a still small voice,
That light that leads the way.
And travel into day,
Pursuing, with a still small voice,
That light that leads the way.
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The grave its mortal dust may keep,
Where tombs and ashes lie;
Death only shall Time's harvest reap,
For Genius cannot die.
Where tombs and ashes lie;
Death only shall Time's harvest reap,
For Genius cannot die.
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