Whereat the earth did seem Said to the Rose, "Ha, snow! "Holla, thou world-wide snow! With a little bough to catch thee, -Poor Rose, to be misknown! Some word she tried to say, But the passion did o'ercome her, -Dropped from her, fair and mute, Who beheld them, smiling slowly, As at something sad yet holy, 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, In a loneness, in a loneness, And the nobler for that oneness. "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? And if none can reach our stature, "What bell will yield a tone, If no brazen clapper bringing, "What angel but would seem "And thus, what can we do, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared 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 "Something it is, to hold First revealed to creature-duty, "Whether that form respect The sense or intellect, Holy be, in mood or meadow, The Chief Beauty's sign and shadow ! 66 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, Blessed still and consecrated In that, rose, we were created. "Oh, shame to poet's lays Sung for the dole of praise,Hoarsely sung upon the highway With that obolum da mihi! 66 Shame, shame to poet's soul When Heaven-chosen to inherit The high throne of a chief spirit! "Sit still upon your thrones, And if, sooth, the world decry you "Ye to yourselves suffice, "In prayers, that upward mount Which, in gushing back upon you,. “In faith, that still perceives "In hope, that apprehends An end beyond these ends, "In thanks, for all the good By poets understood, For the sound of seraphs moving Down the hidden depths of loving,-◄ "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., TO WHOM THESE STANZAS ARE ADDRESSED. IF old Bacchus were the speaker He would tell you with a sigh, Of the Cyprus in this beaker Like a fly or gnat on Ida At the hour of goblet-pledge, By Queen Juno brushed aside, a Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. Sooth, the drinking should be ampler And some deep-mouthed Greek exemplar Pan might dip his head so deep in, 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 time, 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; |