Strings never touched before,--strange accents chanting,--
Strange quivering lambent words,--
A far exalted hope serene or panting
Mastering the chords,--
A sweetness fierce and tragic,--these were thine,
O singing lover of dark Proserpine!
O spirit who lit the Maenad hills with song!
O Augur bearing aloft thy torch divine,
Whose flickering lights bewilder as they shine
Down on the throng.
X
Not thy deep glooms, but thine exceeding glory
Maketh men blind to thee.
For them thou hast no evening fireside story.
But to be free--
But to arise, spurning all bonds that fold
The spirit of man in fetters forged of old--
This was the mighty trend of thy desire;
Shattering the Gods, teaching the heart to mould
No longer idols, but aloft to hold
The soul's own fire.