University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Poems

By John Moultrie. New ed

collapse sectionI. 
collapse sectionI. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
collapse sectionII. 
collapse sectionI. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
THE THIRD MINSTREL.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  


363

THE THIRD MINSTREL.

Not poor, nor profitless, I deem
The homage paid, in deed and truth,
By poet, in his morn of youth,
To elders o'er the craft supreme.
But that, methinks, becomes him more,
Which, in his own declining day,
He doth to those, his juniors, pay
Who, coming after, rank before;
Who still must wax as he must wane,
Whose light shall burn and shine afar,
When his, a pale and glimmering star,
Hath faded into night again.
A matron is my neighbour now,
In childhood introduced to fame,
By one who bears a deathless name
And wreathes the laurel round his brow.
And he beneath her roof sometimes
Still tarries, as a kinsman ought;
Refreshes there his weary thought,
Or meditates harmonious rhymes.
And thither, one fine winter day
On premonition duly sent,
As brother of the guild, I went
My homage to our chief to pay.

364

The snow lay thick on field and tree,
The pools with ice were crusted o'er;
Such snow as fell in days of yore,
Such ice as now we seldom see.
But veil'd in an ambrosial cloud,
Secure from weather, as from fate,
The poet in Olympian state
Did his immortal presence shroud.
Ah! Lillian! was't an act of grace
In thee, retreating through the door,
Two bards, who ne'er had met before,
To leave alone and face to face?
Perchance thou didst a hope sublime
Indulge—yea in thy soul believe—
That each the other's skull would cleave,
And so the world be spared some rhyme.
Thou deem'st the true Pierian swan
Is but a bantam spur-bedight,
More prompt with kindred fowl to fight
Than unpoetic man with man.
Not so,—thy guest, whose face I sought,
Assumed a frank, familiar air,
And with a volume of Moliére
Our brains to mild encounter brought.
We spake of England and of France,
And how the individual man
In England doth to ampler span,
In well-developed growth, advance:

365

And how to Shakespere's genius thus
Did larger fields of thought abound
Than could in all the world be found
Elsewhere than only among us.
That point decided once with care,
To others as our talk diverged,
Together rising, we emerged
Into the fresh and frosty air:
And he, a skater old and proved,
Did o'er the ice, on trenchant heel,
In labyrinthine mazes wheel,
Like one who vigorous motion loved.
Then, homeward as we shaped our way,
Again we spake of books and men,—
The ancient and the modern pen,—
The Grecian, Roman, English lay;
Of Him—the Teacher true and bold,
Till death, assail'd with bigot hate;
Now throned among the good and great
Of all earth's ages, new and old;
And Him—as true and bold—who still
Through the same storm of earthly life,
Malign'd, reviled, maintains his strife
With error and with social ill.
Racy and fresh was all he said,
Not cramp'd by bonds of sect or school;
He seem'd not one who thought by rule,
Nor one of any truth afraid;

366

But, bold of heart and clear of head,
The course of human thought review'd,
And dauntlessly his path pursued,
To whatsoever goal it led.
A man indeed of manly thought,
Inhabiting a manly frame,—
A man resolved, through praise or blame,
To speak and do the thing he ought.
Sometimes in phrase direct and plain,
At which fastidious ears might start,
He clothed the promptings of his heart,
The strong conceptions of his brain;
But in and o'er whate'er he said
Ingenuous truth and candour shone;
In every word and look and tone
Was nobleness of soul display'd.
And if perchance for form and creed
Pugnacious less than some may be,
Yet Christian eyes at once might see
In him, a Christian bard indeed,
And well may English hearts rejoice
That queenly hands around the brow
Of one so graced the laurel bough
Have wreathed, as by a nation's choice.