In one only form dissolves; In a region where the wheel, On which all beings ride, Visibly revolves; Where the starred, eternal worm And joy and moan, Melt into one. There Past, Present, Future, shoot In their archetypes endure. Or those we erring own, Are shadows flitting up and down In the still abodes. The circles of that sea are laws Which publish and which hide the cause. Pray for a beam Out of that sphere, Thee to guide and to redeem. O, what a load Of care and toil, By lying use bestowed, From his shoulders falls who sees The true astronomy, The period of peace. Counsel which the ages kept Fill the lake with images, As garment draws the garment's hem, Lands and goods go to the strong. Still to the proprietor; Silver to silver creep and wind, Nor less the eternal poles Whom not each other seek, but find. No prayer persuades, no flattery fawns,- Not with scarfs or perfumed gloves The soothing lapse of morn to mirk, Love's hearts are faithful, but not fond, THE APOLOGY THINK me not unkind and rude I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I Fold my arms beside the brook; Each cloud that floated in the sky Chide me not, laborious band, Goes home loaded with a thought. There was never mystery But 'tis figured in the flowers; Was never secret history But birds tell it in the bowers. One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong; A second crop thine acres yield, Which I gather in a song. MERLIN I THY trivial harp will never please Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, Free, peremptory, clear. No jingling serenader's art, Nor tinkle of piano strings, Can make the wild blood start In its mystic springs. The kingly bard Must smite the chords rudely and hard, As with hammer or with mace; That they may render back Artful thunder, which conveys Secrets of the solar track, Sparks of the supersolar blaze. Merlin's blows are strokes of fate, Chiming with the forest tone, When boughs buffet boughs in the wood; With the pulse of manly hearts; With the din of city arts; With the marches of the brave; And prayers of might from martyr's cave. Great is the art, Great be the manners, of the bard. For his rhyme. "Pass in, pass in," the angels say, "In to the upper doors, Nor count compartments of the floors, But mount to paradise By the stairway of surprise." Blameless master of the games, Sings aloud the tune whereto And march their feet, And their members are combined. By Sybarites beguiled, He shall no task decline; Merlin's mighty line |