II
To a Poet Breaking Silence
TOO wearily had we and songBeen left to look and left to long,Yea, song and we to long and look,Since thine acquainted feet forsookThe mountain where the Muses hymnFor Sinai and the Seraphim.Now in both the mountains’ shineDress thy countenance, twice divine!From Moses and the Muses drawThe Tables of thy double Law!His rod-born fount and CastalyLet the one rock bring forth for thee,Renewing so from either springThe songs which both thy countries sing:Or we shall fear lest, heavened thus long,Thou should’st forget thy native song,And mar thy mortal melodiesWith broken stammer of the skies.
Ah! let the sweet birds of the LordWith earth’s waters make accord;Teach how the crucifix may beCarven from the laurel-tree,Fruit of the HesperidesBurnish take on Eden-trees,The Muses’ sacred grove be wetWith the red dew of Olivet,And Sappho lay her burning browsIn white Cecilia’s lap of snows!
Thy childhood must have felt the stingsOf too divine o’ershadowings;Its odorous heart have been a blossomThat in darkness did unbosom,Those fire-flies of God to invite,Burning spirits, which by nightBear upon their laden wingTo such hearts impregnating.For flowers that night-wings fertilizeMock down the stars’ unsteady eyes,And with a happy, sleepless glanceGaze the moon out of countenance.I think thy girlhood’s watchers mustHave took thy folded songs on trust,And felt them, as one feels the stirOf still lightnings in the hair,When conscious hush expects the cloudTo speak the golden secret loudWhich tacit air is privy to;Flasked in the grape the wine they knew,Ere thy poet-mouth was ableFor its first young starry babble.Keep’st thou not yet that subtle grace?Yea, in this silent interspace,God sets His poems in thy face!
The loom which mortal verse affords,Out of weak and mortal words,Wovest thou thy singing-weed in,To a rune of thy far Eden.Vain are all disguises! Ah,Heavenly incognita!Thy mien bewrayeth through that wrongThe great Uranian House of Song!As the vintages of earthTaste of the sun that riped their birth,We know what never cadent SunThy lampèd clusters throbbed upon,What plumed feet the winepress trod;Thy wine is flavorous of God.Whatever singing-robe thou wearHas the Paradisal air;And some gold feather it has keptShows what Floor it lately swept!