Counsel which the ages kept Fill the lake with images,— As garment draws the garment's hem, Lands and goods go to the strong. 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 Writes a letter in my book. 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 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 marches of the brave; And prayers of might from martyr's cave. Great is the art, Great be the manners, of the bard. He shall not his brain encumber 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 Their pulses beat, And march their feet, And their members are combined. By Sybarites beguiled, He shall no task decline; Merlin's mighty line Extremes of nature reconciled,— Bereaved a tyrant of his will, He shall not seek to weave, Wait his returning strength. Bird, that from the nadir's floor To the zenith's top can soar, The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length. Nor profane affect to hit Or compass that, by meddling wit, Which only the propitious mind Publishes when 'tis inclined. There are open hours When the God's will sallies free, The flowing fortunes of a thousand years; Sudden, at unawares, Self-moved, fly-to the doors, Nor sword of angels could reveal What they conceal. MERLIN II THE rhyme of the poet Made all things in pairs. |