Poems (Cook)/The Dreamer
THE DREAMER.
"While we look, not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal."—St. Paul.
"Does Childhood love rich domes above, Or painted walls around?Will marble floors arouse the step That falls with lightest bound?
"Ah, no! ah, no! it is not so; The fair child goesTo tread on tiny daisies Where the green blade grows.
"Can Manhood's heart so strangely part With all that's fresh and true,That Care leaves not a loop-hole spot For Spirit to look through?
"Ah, no! ah, no! it is not so; His heart still glows,When some old haunt he traces Where the green blade grows.
"We wane away, till, bent and grey, We creep where once we ran,And Age lies down and ends his race Where Boyhood's race began.
"'Tis there we sleep where daisies peep, And sunset throwsThe promise of a morrow Where the green blade grows."
And thus, where the mallow Was fringing the shallow;The Poet One sung to the summer-lit stream, And then he grew dizzy With watching how busyThe swallows were, chasing the gnats in the beam.
Then the minnow tribe swimming— The lotus-cup, brimming—Had charms for his fancy, and lured him to stay; Till one, wiser and colder— A richer and bolderAmong the world's denizens, broke on his way.
"What! still idle, thou dreamer— Thou bubble-blown schemer;Still useless on earth?" cried the sneer-darken'd lip; "Can that mortal inherit A shadow of merit,Who lives out the day seeing willow leaves dip?
"You aid not in felling The wood for man's dwelling—You twine not a thread for his doublet and vest— You've no sheaves for the binding— No mill for the grinding—No tool in the hand, and no corselet on breast!
"No vessel is riding, That owneth thy guiding—Thou help'st not to fashion the hull nor the mast— You've no forge for her chain-gear, No loom for her main-gear—No ball in the battle, no rope in the blast!
"Thou art not a master Of forest or pasture—Thy name is unknown in the Commerce of Gold; You've no dappled herds lowing, No purple grapes growing,No stock have you bought, and no land have you sold!
"You delve not for fuel— You polish no jewel—You pave not the city—you plough not the sward; You help not a neighbour With sweat-drop of labour—What right canst THOU have at Humanity's board?
"Where's the profit in mounting The copse-hill, and countingThe stars and the glow-worms that glimmer around? Why, why dost thou wander Where brooklets meander,And listen as though there were speech in the sound?
"What lore are you gleaning While silently leaningO'er Spring's simple snowdrop and Autumn's dry leaf? Why waste your strong powers 'Mid green hills and flowers,When wealth is so mighty and life is so brief?
Up, man, and be doing: No longer be wooingThe smiles of the moonlight and song of the bird. Muse no more on the motion Of cloud-scud and ocean;But mix where the hum of the Active is heard.
"Is it fair he should fatten, And revel and batten,Who 'draweth no water' and 'heweth no wood!" Shame, shame, to thee, Dreamer! Thou bubble-blown schemer,Thy presence among us here cannot be good!"
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The Dreamer replied not; He smiled not, he sigh'd not; A red brow was all that betoken'd his pride; But while he was flushing, A Spirit came rushingIn radiant glory, and stood by his side.
"Look up, thou rebuker! Hard son of hard lucre!"The Immortal One cried, as the chiding one bent; 'Tis time thou wert learning That he thou art spurningIs here with great mission and sacred intent.
"He was form'd by the Maker, A favour'd partakerOf all Man can know of the Essence Divine; Heaven sent him forth singing, Like alchymist flingingA drop in the crude mass to melt and refine.
"Your barn-mows o'erflowing— Your furnace flames glowingYour freights on the sea, and your stores on the land: Oh! there's fear in the pleasure That springs from such treasure;For the heart is too apt to grow hard as the land.
The Creator, All-seeing, Knew well that each beingHad strings of choice melody hid in his breast; Whose music, the clearest, The purest, the dearest;Could stir to wild gladness, or lull to sweet rest.
"'Tis the music revealing Truth, Nature, and Feeling;But strings of such texture had soon gather'd rust If they met with no finger, About them to linger;To tune the rich, soul-chords, and sweep off the dust.
"The loud, chafing action. Of Gold, Toil, and Faction,Had drown'd the fine echo from Heaven now heard; If no minstrel were straying Among ye, and playingOn notes that will only respond to his word.
"The strains he is chanting Will set your souls pantingWith impulse of Freedom and yearning of Love; The Song that he teaches Has magic that reachesYour brightest of earth-chains, and links them above.
"Ye are proud of the pine tree, The oak, and the vine tree;The rose on your bush, and the fruit on your wall: But say, would ye shut out The fresh wind, or put outThe sun, bringing perfume and beauty from all?
"As the fresh wind that hummeth, The Poet One comethTo stir into health the dense, world-ridden brain; As that sun paints the blossom, He tinges your bosom,With colours that shame all its clay-gather'd stain.
The charm, in his keeping, Can comfort the weeping,Can soften the rugged, and strengthen the weak He wins, with devotion, Man's noblest emotion,And telleth the things that none other can speak.
"While thou art fulfilling, With sowing and tilling,The portion of duty God chose to assign! This One is intrusted With talents, adjustedTo render his office far higher than thine.
"The power he holdeth, The scroll he unfoldeth,Your utmost of striving will fail to obtain; Life's rarest bequeathing But lives in his breathing;And think'st thou such gift was allotted in vain?
"Go, go, thou rebuker, Hard son of hard lucre!Let the dreaming One rove as he lists on the sward; And tremble, ye Toilers, Ye Spirit despoilers;When the Poet is thrust from Humanity's board!"