Part 33 (2/2)

The chain of custom in the drowsy lair Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, And both abhorr'd it,--thou as well as I.

Ah, G.o.d! 'tis tearful true; and I repent; And like a dead, live man I live for this:-- To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, And be my own most piteous monument.

What! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss?

There, take it back; and frown; and be content!

XVII.

THE MISSION OF THE BARD.

He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring Of Art and Nature; and his voice is bold.

He should be quicker than the birds to sing, And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old Who sang their songs for country and for king.

Nothing should daunt him, though the news were told By fiends from h.e.l.l! He should be swift to hold And swift to part with truth, as from a spring.

He should discourse of war and war's alarm, And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought, And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm, And warlike men subdued by tender thought, And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought, And Freedom s.h.i.+elded by his strong right arm!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XVIII.

DEATH.

It is the joy, it is the zest of life, To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, And not a serpent with a look of guile, But one who greets us with a seraph's smile,-- An angel--guest to tend us after strife, And keep us true to G.o.d when fears are rife, And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile.

He walks the world as one empower'd to fill The fields of s.p.a.ce for Father and for Son.

He is our friend, though morbidly we shun His tender touch,--a cure for every ill.

He is the king of peace, when all is done.

Earth and the air are moulded to his will.

XIX.

TO ONE I LOVE.

Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, A garden nook, not far from thy domain, That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book, I may be true to thee, and, pa.s.sion-fain, Rehea.r.s.e the songs of nature once again:-- The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain, And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook!

I die to serve thee, and for this alone,-- To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,-- I would forego the right to fill a throne.

I would consent to be the famine-prey Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown I could subdue thy spirit to my sway.

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