Part 44 (1/2)

Like organ-music comes the deep reply: ”The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be won.

For G.o.d hath given to mine inward eye Vision of England soaring to the sun.

And granted me great peace before I die, In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done.”

III

O bend again above thine organ-board, Thou blind old poet longing for repose!

Thy Master claims thy service not with those Who only stand and wait for His reward; He pours the heavenly gift of song restored Into thy breast, and bids thee n.o.bly close A n.o.ble life, with poetry that flows In mighty music of the major chord.

Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic strain, Surpa.s.sing all thy youthful lyric grace, To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place, And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, The loftiest poet of the English race!

1908.

WORDSWORTH

Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls Among the mountains, and thy song is fed By living springs far up the watershed; No whirling flood nor parching drought controls The crystal current: even on the shoals It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed Deepens below mysterious cliffs of dread, Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.

But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress Of pa.s.sion, and hast trod despair's dry ground Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy.

Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.

October, 1906.

KEATS

The melancholy gift Aurora gained From Jove, that her sad lover should not see The face of death, no G.o.ddess asked for thee, My Keats! But when the scarlet blood-drop stained Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,-- Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!

And then,--a shadow fell on Italy: Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

Yet thou hast won the gift t.i.thonus missed: Never to feel the pain of growing old, Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth, But with the ardent lips Urania kissed To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold, Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

August, 1906.

Sh.e.l.lEY

Knight-errant of the Never-ending Quest, And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire; For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre To some unearthly music, and possessed With painful pa.s.sionate longing to invest The golden dream of Love's immortal fire With mortal robes of beautiful attire, And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

What wonder, Sh.e.l.ley, that the restless wave Should claim thee and the leaping flame consume Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach?

These were thine elements,--thy fitting grave.

But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume, Thy wild song rings in ocean's yearning speech!