15.07.2007, 20:22
1.
His brows were circled by a wreath of bays,
The symbol of the bard's well-earned renown —
Upon his head more regal than the crown
Of kings. For he by his immortal lays
Is King among the poets of these days.
And far and wide where'er our mother-tongue
Is known, his wingèd lines are read and sung
In crowded cities and in green by-ways.
What could his country give that he had not?
Fame, wealth, love's best companionship he had.
And, blown across the seas, no lonely spot
Of our far West but felt the effluence glad
Borne to our hearts as from ethereal fire
In the rich music of his English lyre.
2.
HOW grand he would have stood, had he declined
The needless coronet he donned, as though
Its gilt could heighten his proud aureole's glow.
But downward he has stepped, a seat to find —
Not with the lords of that imperial kind
Whose simple manhood, fed by love and truth,
Found far from monarchs' courts perennial youth
In the ideal gardens of the mind; —
But in a throng of blank nobilities
In outward fellowship of lip and eye —
Of empty forms and hollow courtesies;
Thou art become as one of us — they cry.
Another shape than thine must now be worn.
Son of the morning — how thy beams are shorn!
His brows were circled by a wreath of bays,
The symbol of the bard's well-earned renown —
Upon his head more regal than the crown
Of kings. For he by his immortal lays
Is King among the poets of these days.
And far and wide where'er our mother-tongue
Is known, his wingèd lines are read and sung
In crowded cities and in green by-ways.
What could his country give that he had not?
Fame, wealth, love's best companionship he had.
And, blown across the seas, no lonely spot
Of our far West but felt the effluence glad
Borne to our hearts as from ethereal fire
In the rich music of his English lyre.
2.
HOW grand he would have stood, had he declined
The needless coronet he donned, as though
Its gilt could heighten his proud aureole's glow.
But downward he has stepped, a seat to find —
Not with the lords of that imperial kind
Whose simple manhood, fed by love and truth,
Found far from monarchs' courts perennial youth
In the ideal gardens of the mind; —
But in a throng of blank nobilities
In outward fellowship of lip and eye —
Of empty forms and hollow courtesies;
Thou art become as one of us — they cry.
Another shape than thine must now be worn.
Son of the morning — how thy beams are shorn!