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Whereat the earth did seem
To waken from a dream, Winter-frozen, winter-frozen, Her unquiet eyes unclosing
Said to the Rose, “ Ha, snow!
And art. thou fallen so ?
Holla, thou world-wide snow !
And art thou wasted so, With a little bough to catch thee, And a little bee to watch thee?"
-Poor Rose, to be misknown !
Would she had ne'er been blown,
Some word she tried to say,
Some no ... ah, wellaway ! But the passion did o'ercome her, And the fair frail leaves dropped from her.
-Dropped from her, fair and mute,
Close to a poet's foot,
Said, “ Verily and thus
" It chances too with us Poets, singing sweetest snatches While that deaf men keep the watches :
“Vaunting to come before
Our own age evermore,
Holy in voice and heart,
To high ends, set apart : All unmated, all unmated, Just because so consecrated.
“ But if alone we be,
Where is our empery?
“What bell will yield a tone,
Swung in the air alone ?
“What angel but would seem
To sensual eyes, ghost-dim?
“ And thus, what can we do,
Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unpreparëd season ?
“ Drop, leaf! be silent, song !
Cold things we come among : We must warm them, we must warm them, Ere we ever hope to charm them.
“Howbeit” (here his face
Lightened around the place, So to mark the outward turning Of its spirit's inward burning)
“Something it is, to hold
In God's worlds manifold,
“ Whether that form respect
The sense or intellect,
Holy, in me and thee,
Rose fallen from the tree,Though the world stand dumb around us, All unable to expound us,
“Though none us deign to bless,
Blessëd are we, natheless;
"Oh, shame to poet's lays
Sung for the dole of praise, Hoarsely sung upon the highway With that obolum da mihi !
Shame, shame to poet's soul
Pining for such a dole,
“Sit still upon your thrones,
O ye poetic ones !
“Ye to yourselves suffice,
Without its flatteries.
“In prayers, that upward mount
Like to a fair-sunned fount Which, in gushing back upon you,. Hath an upper music won you,
“In faith, that still perceives
No rose can shed her leaves,
“In hope, that apprehends
An end beyond these ends,
“In thanks, for all the good
By poets understood,
“For sights of things away
“For life, so lovely vain,
For death, which breaks the chain,
WINE OF CYPRUS.
GIVEN TO ME BY H. S. BOYD, AUTHOR OF “SELECT PASSAGES
FROM THE GREEK FATHERS," ETC.,
IF old Bacchus were the speaker
He would tell you with a sigh,
I am sipping like a fly,-
At the hour of goblet-pledge,
Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.
Sooth, the drinking should be ampler
When the drink is so divine, And some deep-mouthed Greek exemplar
Would become your Cyprus wine : Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright in,
While his one eye over leered, Nor too large were mouth of Titan
Drinking rivers down his beard.
Pan might dip his head so deep in,
That his ears alone pricked out, Fauns around him pressing, leaping,
Each one pointing to his throat : While the Naiads, like Bacchantes,
Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, Cry, “O earth, that thou wouldst grant us
Springs to keep, of such a taste !” But for me, I am not worthy
After gods and Greeks to drink, And my lips are pale and earthy
To go bathing from this brink : Since you heard them speak the last tims,
They have faded from their blooms, And the laughter of my pastime
Has learnt silence at the tombs. Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers
Crowned the cup and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers
In the forms they thought of, now? Who will fetch from garden-closes
Some new garlands while I speak, That the forehead, crowned with roses,
May strike scarlet down the cheek ? Do not mock me ! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed;