Even the fell Furies are appeased, The good applaud, the lost are eased. Love's hearts are faithful, but not fond, THE APOLOGY. THINK me not unkind and rude That I walk alone in grove and glen; 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 't is 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, 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; Merlin's blows are strokes of fate, Chiming with the forest tone, When boughs buffet boughs in the wood; Chiming with the gasp and moan Of the ice-imprisoned flood; With the pulse of manly hearts; With the din of city arts; With the cannonade of wars; With the marches of the brave; And prayers of might from martyrs' cave. Great is the art, Great be the manners, of the bard. He shall not his brain encumber With the coil of rhythm and number; But, leaving rule and pale forethought, He shall aye climb 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, Forms more cheerly live and go, 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; Extremes of nature reconciled, - 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 't is inclined. There are open hours When the God's will sallies free, And the dull idiot might see 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. To every foot its antipode; Each color with its counter glowed; Flavor gladly blends with flavor; Forging double stars, Glittering twins and trines. The animals are sick with love, Lovesick with rhyme; |