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The Poets Life (6) - ZaunköniG - 27.05.2007 The Poets Life Poesy With no fond, sickly thirst for fame I knel, O goddess of the high-born art, to thee; Not unto thee with semblance of a zeal I come, O pure and heaven-eyed Poesy! Thou art to me a spirit and a love, Felt ever from the time when first the earth In its green beauty, and the sky above, Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. I was a child of thine before my tongue Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee; And now, albeit from my harp are flung Discordant numbers, and the song may be That which I would not, yet I know that thou The offering wilt not spurn, while thus to thee I bow. The Bard It can not be, the baffled heart, in vain, May seek, amid the crowd, its throbs to hide; Ten thousand others kindred pangs may bide, Yet not the less will our own griefs complain. Chained to our rock, the vultur’s gory stain, And tearing beak is every moment rife, Renewering pangs that end but with our life. Thence bursteh forth the gushing voice of song, The soul’s deep anguish thence an utterance finds, Appealing to all hearts: and human minds Bow down in awe: thence doth the Bard belong, Unto all times: the laurel steeped in wrong Unsought is his: his soul demanded bread, And ye, charmed with the voice, gave but a stone instead. The Unattained And is this life? and are we born for this? – To follow phantoms that elude the grasp, Or whatsoe’er secured, within our clasp To withering lie, as if each earthly kiss Were doomed death’s shuddering touch alone to meet. O Life! hast thou reserved no cup of bliss? Must still THE UNATTAINED beguile our feet? THE UNATTAINED with yearnings fill the breast, That rob for aye the spirit of its rest? Yes, this is Life; and everywhere we meet, Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat; Yet faint thou not: thou dost apply a test, That shall incite thee onward, upward still: The present cannot sate, nor e’er thy spirit fill. Religion Alone, yet not alone, the heart doth brood With a sad fondness o’er its hidden grief; Broods with a miser joy, wherein relief Comes with a semblance of its own quaint mood. How many hearts this point of life have passed! And some a train oflight behind have cast, To show us what hath been, and what may be; That thus have suffered all the wise and good, Thus wept and prayed, thus struggled and were free. So doth the pilot, trackless though the deep, Unswerving by the stars his reckoning keep, He moves a highway not untried before, And thence he courage gains, and joy doth reap, Unfaltering lays his course, and leaves behind the shore. The Dream I dreamed last night, that I myself did lay Within the grave, and after stood and wept. My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept! ‘T was a strange dream, and yet methinks it may Prefigure that which is askin to truth. How sorrow we o’er perished dreams of youth, High hopes and aspirations doomed to be Crushed and o’ermastered by earth’s destiny! Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth, - And that deluding faith, so loath to part, That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart! O, ‘t is the ashes of such things that wring Tears from the eyes; hopes like to these depart, And we bow down in dread, o’vershadowed by Death’s wing. An Incident A simple thing, yet chancing as it did, When life was bright with its illusive dreams, A pledge and promise seemed beneath it hid The ocean lay before me, tinged with beams That lingering draped the west, a wavering stir; And at my feet down fell a worn gray quill: And eagle, high above the darkling fir, With steady flight, seemed there to take his fill Of that pure ether breathed by him alone. O noble bird! why didst thou loose for me Thy eagle plume? still unessayed, unknown, Must be that pathway fearless winged by thee: I ask it not, no lofty flight be mine; I would not soar like thee, in loneliness to pine! |