228
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
"Now by the gods that high Olympus throng;
By the shrined masters of triumphant song;
By this melodious sisterhood, I swear,
This railing tongue is more than gods can bear!
'A pretty art!' the trophies of whose pride
Survive all else when states themselves have died.
'A pretty art!' The Greek's, that held all ears
Bound to his harp for thrice a thousand years;
Or his of Avon, while whose lyre was strung,
Apollo's own was on the willows hung
A 'light amusement' were his rapturous lays,
Who 'scorned delights,' and lived laborious days.
Immortal labor! whose renown shall soar
Till blooms the Eden of his song once more!"
Paused the proud god; to whom replied, unquailed,
The stolid minstrel: "Sire! I've not assailed
The bard's renown; yet stands it not alone;
The statesman's fame is no unworthy one.
There 's Bacon———" "Granted!" broke the impatient god,
"Nay, more; his name most warmly would I laud,
Who serves his state in senate or in field.
The bard's supremacy I can not yield.
Though poor, though worthless in surrounding eyes,
He has the leaven that will make him rise,
Where reigning great ones vainly seek to climb,
But sink to silence with the dregs of time.
What most endure, though seeming weak, most strong,
Are words made buoyant by the wings of song;
That seem to lift them to a calmer air.
Where earth's abrading forces can not wear:
So near the stars' harmonious, glowing clime,
They catch their lustre, and perennial chime!
All that would bloom through time for ever young
Must sing as bards, or else by bards be sung;
Must in the flow of amber verse be drowned;
In web of song's embalming priest be wound.
Surest of balms! of all the precious spoils
Of spicy Araby, or tropic isles.
Mark the dim glories of the shadowy past!
So mighty once, how could they fail to last?
Where now the honors of the haughty great?
By the shrined masters of triumphant song;
By this melodious sisterhood, I swear,
This railing tongue is more than gods can bear!
'A pretty art!' the trophies of whose pride
Survive all else when states themselves have died.
'A pretty art!' The Greek's, that held all ears
Bound to his harp for thrice a thousand years;
Or his of Avon, while whose lyre was strung,
Apollo's own was on the willows hung
A 'light amusement' were his rapturous lays,
Who 'scorned delights,' and lived laborious days.
Immortal labor! whose renown shall soar
Till blooms the Eden of his song once more!"
Paused the proud god; to whom replied, unquailed,
The stolid minstrel: "Sire! I've not assailed
The bard's renown; yet stands it not alone;
The statesman's fame is no unworthy one.
There 's Bacon———" "Granted!" broke the impatient god,
"Nay, more; his name most warmly would I laud,
Who serves his state in senate or in field.
The bard's supremacy I can not yield.
Though poor, though worthless in surrounding eyes,
He has the leaven that will make him rise,
Where reigning great ones vainly seek to climb,
But sink to silence with the dregs of time.
What most endure, though seeming weak, most strong,
Are words made buoyant by the wings of song;
That seem to lift them to a calmer air.
Where earth's abrading forces can not wear:
So near the stars' harmonious, glowing clime,
They catch their lustre, and perennial chime!
All that would bloom through time for ever young
Must sing as bards, or else by bards be sung;
Must in the flow of amber verse be drowned;
In web of song's embalming priest be wound.
Surest of balms! of all the precious spoils
Of spicy Araby, or tropic isles.
Mark the dim glories of the shadowy past!
So mighty once, how could they fail to last?
Where now the honors of the haughty great?
