MERLIN I
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hy trivial harp will never pleaseOr fill my craving ear;Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,Free, peremptory, clear.No jingling serenader's art,Nor tinkle of piano strings,Can make the wild blood startIn its mystic springs.The kingly bardMust smite the chords rudely and hard,As with hammer or with mace;That they may render backArtful thunder, which conveysSecrets of the solar track,Sparks of the supersolar blaze.Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,Chiming with the forest tone,When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;Chiming with the gasp and moanOf the ice-imprisoned flood;With the pulse of manly hearts;With the voice of orators;With the din of city arts;With the cannonade of wars;With the marches of the brave;And prayers of might from martyrs' cave. Great is the art,Great be the manners, of the bard.He shall not his brain encumberWith the coil of rhythm and number;But, leaving rule and pale forethought,He shall aye climbFor his rhyme.'Pass in, pass in,' the angels say,'In to the upper doors,Nor count compartments of the floors,But mount to paradiseBy the stairway of surprise.' Blameless master of the games,King of sport that never shames,He shall daily joy dispenseHid in song's sweet influence.Forms more cheerly live and go,What time the subtle mindSings aloud the tune wheretoTheir pulses beat,And march their feet,And their members are combined. By Sybarites beguiled,He shall no task decline;Merlin's mighty lineExtremes of nature reconciled,--Bereaved a tyrant of his will,And made the lion mild.Songs can the tempest still,Scattered on the stormy air,Mould the year to fair increase,And bring in poetic peace. He shall not seek to weave,In weak, unhappy times,Efficacious rhymes;Wait his returning strength.Bird that from the nadir's floorTo the zenith's top can soar,--The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.Nor profane affect to hitOr compass that, by meddling wit,Which only the propitious mindPublishes when 't is inclined.There are open hoursWhen the God's will sallies free,And the dull idiot might seeThe flowing fortunes of a thousand years;--Sudden, at unawares,Self-moved, fly-to the doors.Nor sword of angels could revealWhat they conceal.
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