The Great Poet.
Upon Parnassian heights he walked and gazed below;—
From wing of Jove’s high soaring bird he plucked his pen;
Attuned to poet soul, his lofty numbers flow—
His stately verse ne’er stoops to common needs of men.
The earth-born, toiling throng, he saw, but from afar;
No interlinking brotherhood bound him to them;
For them no warmth his glory shed—a cold, bright star,
On which they gazed as on a costly, dazzling gem.
To those who nearest reach his altitude of thought
He bends himself to speak, but yet, with lofty mien;
Of these, but few, familiar comradship, have sought;
They stand, his far, dim height and earth’s green vales, between,
To take his gift, which often falls like vivid lightning flashes,
And crystalize, and link for comprehension’s reach—
They trace his subtle thread, entangled with the shining meshes
Of universal lore, and weave in wefts of wondrous speech.
Sometimes, it seems, an idea vast, his measure strains,
When he doth crush the whole, as quartz is crushed for gold,
And then, reject and cleanse, until there’s naught remains
Of quartz or dross. The massive idea we behold
Upon his page, aglow in shining, golden grains.
Then alchemistic souls, in study’s crucial heat,
Must fuse and integrate—must clothe, and warm,
And breathe into it soul, when lo, with life replete,
The world will praise for breadth and depth, embracing form.
* * * * *
In this bright world of ours God placed some humble ones
With loving hearts, o’erwelling with sweet tenderness;
They soothe the wounds of war, they cheer earth’s toiling sons
And where grief broods these faithful ones are there to bless;
And e’en when fiends come forth with pestilential breath
To pour their reeking poisons on the stagnant air,
Forgetting self, they wrestle long with Death,
And, with devotion’s strength, the black-winged demon, dare.
Tho’ humble these, their elder Brother sits enthroned
At God’s right hand; His golden words, impressive, deep,
Still speak to us in sweet monition, gentle toned,
“If ye love me feed my lambs,—aye feed my sheep.”
O, many sheep have need of thee. Go feed them “In His Name,”
Or seek that shelterless, that lone one that has strayed,
Nor deem thy labor lost because, unknown to fame,
For whoso lifts the cup, by which there’s one soul’s thirst allayed,
The same shall eat of hidden manna. He is blest of God.
Tho’, but faintly we can echo the loving Shepherd’s call,
We’ll find in Duty’s obscure ways, His sweetest blessings fall—
In these same, lowly paths, earth’s sainted ones have trod.
It may be grand to tread Olympian heights and breathe
Ambrosial airs,—to win high praise ’mong those whose souls
Are lit with Heaven’s fire; but sweeter far to wreathe
A simple worded song, whose swelling music rolls
A tidal wave of feeling, thrilling into life
A long chained serfdom. Greater mastery of the art
Is his, who lifts to light, from savagery and strife,
Earth’s darkened isles—whose pen can touch the world’s great heart
With philanthropic fire,—whose verse has, throbbing thro’ the whole,
In sympathy with man, a loving, human soul.