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 many dreams

                  Of high desire.

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.