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FORERUNNERS
Walter. I HAVE a strain of a departed bard; | |
| One who was born too late into this world. | |
| A mighty day was past, and he saw nought | |
| But ebbing sunset and the rising stars,— | |
| Still o’er him rose those melancholy stars! | 5 |
| Unknown his childhood, save that he was born | |
| ’Mong woodland waters full of silver breaks; | |
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| I was to him but Labrador to Ind; | |
| His pearls were plentier than my pebblestones. | |
| He was the sun, I was that squab—the earth, | 10 |
| And bask’d me in his light until he drew | |
| Flowers from my barren sides. Oh! he was rich, | |
| And I rejoiced upon his shore of pearls, | |
| A weak enamor’d sea. Once he did say, | |
| “My Friend! a Poet must ere long arise, | 15 |
| And with a regal song sun-crown this age, | |
| As a saint’s head is with a halo crown’d;— | |
| One, who shall hallow Poetry to God | |
| And to its own high use, for Poetry is | |
| The grandest chariot wherein king-thoughts ride;— | 20 |
| One, who shall fervent grasp the sword of song, | |
| As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest blade, | |
| To find the quickest passage to the heart. | |
| A mighty Poet, whom this age shall choose | |
| To be its spokesman to all coming times. | 25 |
| In the ripe full-blown season of his soul, | |
| He shall go forward in his spirit’s strength, | |
| And grapple with the questions of all time, | |
| And wring from them their meanings. As King Saul | |
| Call’d up the buried prophet from his grave | 30 |
| To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king | |
| Call up the dead Past from its awful grave | |
| To tell him of our future. As the air | |
| Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love— | |
| Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake | 35 |
| Reflects the flower, tree, rock, and bending heaven, | |
| Shall he reflect our great humanity; | |
| And as the young Spring breathes with living breath | |
| On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly | |
| Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe life | 40 |
| Through every theme he touch, making all Beauty | |
| And Poetry for ever like the stars.” | |
| His words set me on fire; I cried aloud, | |
| “God! what a portion to forerun this Soul!” | |
| He grasp’d my hand,—I look’d upon his face,— | 45 |
| A thought struck all the blood into his cheeks, | |
| Like a strong buffet. His great flashing eyes | |
| Burn’d on mine own. He said, “A grim old king, | |
| Whose blood leap’d madly when the trumpets bray’d | |
| To joyous battle ’mid a storm of steeds, | 50 |
| Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day; | |
| But in the sunset he was ebbing fast, | |
| Ring’d by his weeping lords. His left hand held | |
| His white steed, to the belly splash’d with blood, | |
| That seem’d to mourn him with its drooping head; | 55 |
| His right, his broken brand; and in his ear | |
| His old victorious banners flap the winds. | |
| He called his faithful herald to his side,— | |
| ‘Go! tell the dead I come!’ With a proud smile, | |
| The warrior with a stab let out his soul, | 60 |
| Which fled and shriek’d through all the other world, | |
| ‘Ye dead! My master comes!’ And there was pause | |
| Till the great shade should enter. Like that herald, | |
| Walter, I ’d rush across this waiting world | |
| And cry, ‘He comes!”’ Lady, wilt hear the song? [Sings. | 65 |
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A MINOR POET
He sat one winter ’neath a linden tree | |
| In my bare orchard; “See, my friend,” he said, | |
| “The stars among the branches hang like fruit, | |
| So, hopes were thick within me. When I ’m gone | |
| The world will like a valuator sit | 70 |
| Upon my soul, and say, ‘I was a cloud | |
| That caught its glory from a sunken sun, | |
| And gradual burn’d into its native gray.”’ | |
| On an October eve, ’t was his last wish | |
| To see again the mists and golden woods; | 75 |
| Upon his death-bed he was lifted up, | |
| The slumb’rous sun within the lazy west | |
| With their last gladness fill’d his dying eyes. | |
| No sooner was he hence than critic-worms | |
| Were swarming on the body of his fame, | 80 |
| And thus they judged the dead: “This Poet was | |
| An April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughs | |
| Promis’d to Autumn apples juiced and red, | |
| But never came to fruit.” “He is to us | |
| But a rich odor,—a faint music-swell.” | 85 |
| “Poet he was not in the larger sense; | |
| He could write pearls, but he could never write | |
| A Poem round and perfect as a star.” | |
| “Politic, i’ faith. His most judicious act | |
| Was dying when he did; the next five years | 90 |
| Had finger’d all the fine dust from his wings, | |
| And left him poor as we. He died—’t was shrewd! | |
| And came with all his youth and unblown hopes | |
| On the world’s heart, and touch’d it into tears.” | |
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SEA-MARGE
The lark is singing in the blinding sky, | 95 |
| Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea | |
| Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, | |
| And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, | |
| He decorates her tawny brow with shells, | |
| Retires a space, to see how fair she looks, | 100 |
| Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair— | |
| All glad, from grass to sun! Yet more I love | |
| Than this, the shrinking day that sometimes comes | |
| In Winter’s front, so fair ’mong its dark peers, | |
| It seems a straggler from the files of June, | 105 |
| Which in its wanderings had lost its wits, | |
| And half its beauty; and, when it return’d, | |
| Finding its old companions gone away, | |
| It join’d November’s troop, then marching past; | |
| And so the frail thing comes, and greets the world | 110 |
| With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in tears, | |
| And all the while it holds within its hand | |
| A few half-wither’d flowers. I love and pity it! | |
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