TO THE AUTHOR OF ZISKA.
Not like the Sophist, of his phosphor-light
Enamoured so, that he would blot out one
By one God's lofty candles, fain in night
To plunge the nations, so that for a sun
They come to bow before his counterfeit;
And not like him—of mocking smile, the dull
Cold Scorn er, ill-content the heart to cheat
Of Heaven, but trampling out the Beautiful
From Earth, to make life's ruin more complete,—
Art Thou, oh, erring Genius! not for thee
Their high emprise, to drag Humanity
About the miry streets, and hold to scorn
This vesture God hath fashioned, God hath worn;
Dry, hopeless hearts, dry, loveless, tearless eyes!
Thou Youth of lofty dreams, of generous prayers,
Come out from them, and better recognise
Thy place! thy lot can never be with theirs!
For speaking to the Father thou hast said,
"Give Thou to me, oh, give that I may share
Enamoured so, that he would blot out one
By one God's lofty candles, fain in night
To plunge the nations, so that for a sun
They come to bow before his counterfeit;
And not like him—of mocking smile, the dull
Cold Scorn er, ill-content the heart to cheat
Of Heaven, but trampling out the Beautiful
From Earth, to make life's ruin more complete,—
Art Thou, oh, erring Genius! not for thee
Their high emprise, to drag Humanity
About the miry streets, and hold to scorn
This vesture God hath fashioned, God hath worn;
Dry, hopeless hearts, dry, loveless, tearless eyes!
Thou Youth of lofty dreams, of generous prayers,
Come out from them, and better recognise
Thy place! thy lot can never be with theirs!
For speaking to the Father thou hast said,
"Give Thou to me, oh, give that I may share
