POET.

'Tis glorious to stand thus nigh to heaven,

And like a Prophet with the mark of god

Set on him for an everlasting work,

With outstretched hands, and earnest-hearted words,

To speak unto the Nations. This calm spot,

Emblem of Truth's serenity and peace,

With no hoarse dissonance to stir the deep

Of thought to passion, till the whirling waves

Swallow the love-steered purposes of soul,

And leave its being desolate--looks down

On Earth, and all its jarring multitudes,

Its miseries of soul and sense, as Earth

Looks on the distant glory of the stars,

All unparticipant of weal or woe,

Save as the glass is of its mirrored form;

Thus Action rises over Thought, and sets

Man over man preeminent for and great,

As mountains in the sphere of human life.

This were a throne meet for the Sent of God

To rest on, and give laws unto the world,

Rooted in the unshaken strength of Earth,

With man for footstool, and the disc of heaven

For canopy and witness to swell down

The quenchless words into the heart of Time;

Here to raise up the wand, and smite Earth's soul

Till streams of penitence and love gushed out

To wipe away her barrenness, and fill

The latent seeds of holiness with life,

To blossom for the harvest of the Angels.

O Thou that from Thy throne set on the flood

Of measureless Eternity, dost bind

The mighty thunder in its misty cave,

And still'st its throbbings with a single word;

That break'st the chain which holdeth it, and send'st

It booming o'er the boundless Universe,

Thy minister to testify of Thee,

And shake the pillars of the firm-set Earth

With knowledge of Thy majesty and strength;

That with the trenchant lightning dost search out

The limits of immensity, and bare

Its inmost soul to Thy dread scrutiny,

Before whose holiness the sun grows dim,

And vanishes to nothingness like mist;

That bidd'st the winds sweep o'er the bounds of space,

Strong in the terror of Thy mightiness,

Till stars are shaken from their seats, like fruit

From the autumnal fulness of the bough;

Breathe Thou upon me till my soul be full

Of deathless inspiration, that may flow

In burning currents through all space and Time,

And stir up generations with warm life,

To battle for the cause of Truth and Heaven.

Let my words ring upon the sleeper's ear

Clear as the trump that wakes the dead for doom,

Fright him from false security and sloth,

And rouse the _man_ within him, though it be

Feeble and powerless as a creeping babe.

Let them break on the conscience of the base,

As billows break upon the shifting sands,

Crumbling the false foundations of his hope,

And sweeping all his theories to naught:

Let them rush swifter on him as he flees,

Circle him with their terrors everywhere,

Snatch from his clutching fingers every prop

That guilt or error flings him, till he fall

Into the waves of truth a drowning man

With not a straw to grasp at. Let them smite

Wrong and oppression like a gnawing blight,

Eating into the heart, till like dead leaves,

Shrivell'd and pow'rless, beggars tread them down.

Let them fall on the pure in heart like dews,

To strengthen and to nourish all sweet thoughts,

Raising the drooping and the weary up,

And adding sweetness to the path of life.

To all may they be wafted on the wings

Of love, not the false love that shines alike

On flower and weed, until the evil rise

To choke the good seed with its overgrowth;

But let deep kindness fill them utterly,

In comfort, or in sorrow, or in doom.

Hard is their journey, and unsmooth their way

Who walk like pilgrims to eternal fame,

Raising for ever hymns of love and beauty,

Amid the jar and weariness of life,

Working through joy and sorrow equally

To stamp their names upon the world's great heart,

And piercing their own bosoms, like the bird,

For glowing streams to nourish it for aye.

Yet it is glorious to make this life

Great in the strength of Action, till it stand

A landmark and a guide immoveable,

To witness of the struggle and the end;

A life of thought is blossom without fruit.

O Life! would I could map thy minutes out,

And give to each its purpose, like a king

To claim just tribute from futurity;

Would I could freight ye with such spirit power,

That, like a huge rock cast into the sea,

Ye sent Time waving back for evermore;

Would ye could track your footsteps out in deeds,

Like prints in the soft sands that heaven's decree

Changeth into the adamantine rock,

Till time nor tide can wipe the trace away.

Let my steps march right onward, pausing none

For pleasure or for folly, for the path

Is long, and difficult, and hard to walk,

And at its limit lies Eternity.

Let no false weakness clog me in the work,

And cramp the motions of my willing soul,

But let me gird my spirit up to run

Before the chariot of the speeding age,

A Prophet, and a Poet, and a guide!

O! my heart thrills to that great watchword "Act,"

To leave no record written on the sand

For the first wave to crumble into naught,

But to materialize on thought--to raise

A standard glorious with the sign of heaven,

And set it waving o'er oblivion;

To seize on spirit like a willow rod,

And bend and fashion it to perfect use,

Curbing its wayward fancies and desires,

Until it sway true to the Poet's creed;

To move Earth's multitudes with nervous power,

And burning eloquence, as leaves are swept

Before the breathing of a mighty wind,

Urging them on for Truth and Nobleness,

And leading on the van to show the way--

No prating coward framing theories

For other men to build on, with "Do _this_"

For empty precept--but there, standing forth,

Set _deeds_ in the world's face, and cry "Do _thus_!"

The Poet's life is action spiritualized,

Words sublimate by earnestness and truth

To the reality and force of deed--

Falling upon the great world's soul like spells

That take the reason captive, and subdue

Its motions to the gentle sway of love.

His thoughts are like the moonlight that enshrines

All earth and heaven with beauty and soft grace,

Pouring rich floods of radiance divine

O'er life's reality of grief and pain,

Making e'en sorrow luminous and sweet,

And freighting sighs with gentlest melody.

His creed is--Love--Love perfect, uncontrolled;

Twining round all the good and beautiful,

As ivy twineth round the sapling oak,

Evermore growing with its growth more strong,

Till not e'en Death can tear those arms away;

Love--winging o'er creation like the morn

And show'ring light and beauty as it flies

O'er mountain, vale, and streamlet, equally--

In flowery mead and desert solitude

Making itself a presence of delight,

A radiant glory sweeter than all forms,

All shows, all substance--rising in the soul,

Like water in the desert--heaven in death!

Opening the unseen gates of Heaven, till sense

Dream of its utter blessedness and peace;

Leading life onward like an angel pure,

Through strife and sorrow scatheless and secure,

Scattering joy around it evermore,

Like benisons shed from a mother's heart,

Making the weary and the bruized glad,

Wiping the tears from sorrow's clouded eyes,

And soothing pain like woman's tenderness.

Let me love all things with a perfect love,

That would e'en coin its own heart-drops to pay

Life's ransom from the bitterness of woe,

Bear tenderly upon the weaknesses

Of flesh, and its oft seen infirmities,

And turn with hope and trustfulness to man;

Let me not be a stunted thorn on earth,

With jagged points to scare all fondness off,

Unsweeten'd by a blossom or a bud,

And branded deep with harsh sterility,

But like a soft wind breathing to and fro,

May love and sympathy wave through the Earth.

Life without love, is sorrow without hope.

O Love! thou law of Heaven! thou joy of Earth!

That like the Star of Bethlehem dost rest

Above the cradle of a Poet's soul,

The witness and the seal of holy birth;

Before whose brightness all earth's shadows fade

Like fiends before the angel of the Lord;

That rend'st in twain the veil of doubt and fear

Shrouding the perfectness of heaven's pure bliss,

Till man may worship with unsmitten soul

Before the glory of the inner shrine;

O Love! the Quenchless! Pure! and Beautiful!

Be to me as the Prophet's cruize of oil,

That wasteth not, nor minisheth with use,

To nourish me through this life's famine time,

And strengthen me unto the poet's work;

Fold my soul throughly in thy sweet embrace,

In honour, or in sorrow, or in joy,

Filling it with thy holy influence,

As air is filled with sunshine at the noon,

Till all thought feel its blessedness and peace.

Thus would I furnish me for life's long march,

Arm for its dangers, cater for its wants,

Work out its ends with confidence and truth,

And rest unstained, unwearied at the goal!