Poems (Rowe)/The Will of the Mad Poet
THE WILL OF THE MAD POET
INOW being sane, do will and devise That these shall be given at my demise.
I give unto the children of all time, The gladness of the morning in its prime; The smiling fields which glisten in the Light That radiant springs from out the arms of Night. The song of birds; and, all the myriad sounds That echo from the brooklet as it bounds To join the rushing river in its race To lose itself within the sea's embrace! The singing of the lark at roseate dawn Trilling a joyous welcome to the morn. The fleecy clouds that chase o'er Heaven's bluet Making the vault of a diviner hue; The Shadows that chase after, without heed Of buttercups, and daisies in the meed.
To little Babes, the Mother's lovelit eyes Whose tenderness makes Earth a Paradise.
To Lovers shall I give their heart's delight; The quiet spaces, and the silent Night. Fair lilies, and the red rose of desire That with sweet passion virgin souls inspire. The twilight, and the glamour of the dusk, And odours of white jessamine, and musk. The sudden sobbing of the Night's sweet breath When slowly sinking in the arms of Death.
To young men, all the dreams that come by day Of Fame; and laurels plucked from out the fray To lay before the feet of some unknown, Some wondrous Fair that Fate would make his own. And then to breast the world with valiant soul, And courage high until he reach his goal.
To Mothers sweetest cooings in the nest Her white arms make, close to her fragrant breast, To see her babe, now satisfied a while, Ope milk-wet lips, and give back smile for smile.
And to the Aged shall fair memories come, And those of pain and sorrow shall be dumb, And only love, and honour, hosts of friends, To cheer them blithely to their nearing ends.
And for myself, in Hearts to live again From which in life I banishèd all pain.