THE POET.

THE poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above;

Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill,

He saw thro' his own soul.

The marvel of the everlasting will,

An open scroll,

:

Before him lay with echoing feet he threaded The secret'st walks of fame :

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame,

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,
And of so fierce a flight,

From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,
Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Them earthward till they lit ;

Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower,
The fruitful wit

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew
Where'er they fell, behold,

Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
A flower all gold,

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling
The winged shafts of truth,

To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring
Of Hope and Youth.

So

many minds did gird their orbs with beams,

Though one did fling the fire.

Heaven flow'd upon the soul in

Of high desire.

many

dreams

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world
Like one great garden show'd,

And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd,
Rare sunrise flow'd.

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise
Her beautiful bold brow,

When rites and forms before his burning eyes
Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes
Sunn'd by those orient skies;

But round about the circles of the globes
Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame
WISDOM, a name to shake

All evil dreams of power-a sacred name.
And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,
Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd,

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word

She shook the world.

THE POET'S MIND.

I.

VEX not thou the poet's mind
With thy shallow wit:

Vex not thou the poet's mind

For thou cans't not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river; Bright as light, and clear as wind.

II.

Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear;
All the place is holy ground;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer

Into every spicy flower

Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.

Which would blight the plants.

Where you stand you cannot hear

From the groves within

The wild-bird's din.

In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants,
It would fall to the ground if you came in.

In the middle leaps a fountain
Like sheet lightning,

Ever brightening

With a low melodious thunder;

All day and all night it is ever drawn
From the brain of the purple mountain
Which stands in the distance yonder :
It springs on a level of bowery lawn,
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above,
And it sings a song of undying love;

And yet, though its voice be so clear and full,
You never would hear it-your ears are so dull;
So keep where you are: you are foul with sin;
It would shrink to the earth if you came in.