The Knickerbocker Gallery/The Sessions of Parnassus
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Thos. Ward
The Sessions of Parnassus; or, the Bards of Gotham.
A DAY-DREAM.
By Thomas Ward.
Lulled in the arms of my "too easy-chair,"
Whose soft embrace composes every care;
No coming toil for thought to brood upon;
Even the fond task of dinner fitly done,
I lounged luxurious, and beguiled the time
With Griswold's garnered hoard of native rhyme.
Heaven, sure, the land with favoring eye regards—
Two hundred genuine and immortal bards!
Time was when Genius' weary growth was slow,
A century-plant, that once an age would blow,
A shooting orb, that as it rushed and blazed,
Drew eyes of millions, and their senses crazed:
And nations hushed as if the thunder spoke,
Then in one wide and general pæan broke!
How few enshrined and classic gods of rhyme,
Embalmed by fame, survive the rust of time!
Less than the muses that inspired their strain—
Still less—of Europe's modern boast remain.
Though myriad twinklers, struggling for our gaze,
Just stain the zenith with their general haze;
Apart and rare the lights of surer ray
Emerge like planets from that milky way.
But in our sphere what numbers claim the eye!
Two hundred lights contending for the sky!
Two hundred wits of one ripe age the birth!
Whence this profusion? Does the teeming earth
Of our prolific clime, so fatly rife
With the rank waste of vegetative life,
That plant a stake, at once it sprouts a tree,
Spawn genius, too, as well? How oft we see
Wit's sapless twig, that had but drooped elsewhere,
Here planted, shoot, and laurel honors bear!
Great god of Song! and canst thou thus inspire
At once such numbers with thy precious fire?
Of the two hundred, grant but only two
Of ancient stamp, and take the residue!
Whose soft embrace composes every care;
No coming toil for thought to brood upon;
Even the fond task of dinner fitly done,
I lounged luxurious, and beguiled the time
With Griswold's garnered hoard of native rhyme.
Heaven, sure, the land with favoring eye regards—
Two hundred genuine and immortal bards!
Time was when Genius' weary growth was slow,
A century-plant, that once an age would blow,
A shooting orb, that as it rushed and blazed,
Drew eyes of millions, and their senses crazed:
And nations hushed as if the thunder spoke,
Then in one wide and general pæan broke!
How few enshrined and classic gods of rhyme,
Embalmed by fame, survive the rust of time!
Less than the muses that inspired their strain—
Still less—of Europe's modern boast remain.
Though myriad twinklers, struggling for our gaze,
Just stain the zenith with their general haze;
Apart and rare the lights of surer ray
Emerge like planets from that milky way.
But in our sphere what numbers claim the eye!
Two hundred lights contending for the sky!
Two hundred wits of one ripe age the birth!
Whence this profusion? Does the teeming earth
Of our prolific clime, so fatly rife
With the rank waste of vegetative life,
That plant a stake, at once it sprouts a tree,
Spawn genius, too, as well? How oft we see
Wit's sapless twig, that had but drooped elsewhere,
Here planted, shoot, and laurel honors bear!
Great god of Song! and canst thou thus inspire
At once such numbers with thy precious fire?
Of the two hundred, grant but only two
Of ancient stamp, and take the residue!
Thus musing, whether with the weight oppressed,
Of dinner, or my book, I sank to rest;
And my soul hovered with unplying wing
In that rare midway realm where visions spring.
When lo! along the horizon's brim afar
Rose on my sight great Phœbus' golden ear I
Harnessed to coursers, mettled, fleet, and proud,
Trampling the noiseless and unyielding cloud:
The linked Hours around the chariot flew,
Fair as the forms that Guido's pencil drew.
Aurora, leading the fair band of Hours,
Rained from her hand a shower of dropping flowers:
Seemed the whole vision, as it swam the sky,
An iridescent bubble floating by;
Which, as it neared Parnassus' sacred hill,
Lighted, re-bounded, quivered, and stood still!
At once dismounting there, the radiant god,
Gracious with smiles, the hallowed mountain trod.
His showering locks of amber, all unbound,
Shook the gold dust of shivered sunbeams round.
To greet him circling stood, with lesser stars,
Minerva, Venus, Dian, doughty Mars,
Bacchus, and Hermes: while the welkin rang
With hymning welcome, as the muses sang:
To whom Apollo: "Mighty deities!
And sisters fair! thanks for your courtesies!
Upon our circuit, through this nether sphere,
We begged your presence and your counsel here,
To grace our sessions, held to reprimand
Our laggard subjects of far Gotham-land
From which disloyal province of our state
No verbal incense have we snuffed of late.
Rarely a verse from their dull ranks appearing;
Barest of all, a song that's worth the hearing.
And, king of medicine, as well as song,
'Tis ours to physic the disordered throng.
Hence have we summoned such delinquents, then,
To rap the knuckles that refuse the pen.
Good Hermes deigns our right-hand man to be—
Our crier, clerk, and eke factotum he.
Of dinner, or my book, I sank to rest;
And my soul hovered with unplying wing
In that rare midway realm where visions spring.
When lo! along the horizon's brim afar
Rose on my sight great Phœbus' golden ear I
Harnessed to coursers, mettled, fleet, and proud,
Trampling the noiseless and unyielding cloud:
The linked Hours around the chariot flew,
Fair as the forms that Guido's pencil drew.
Aurora, leading the fair band of Hours,
Rained from her hand a shower of dropping flowers:
Seemed the whole vision, as it swam the sky,
An iridescent bubble floating by;
Which, as it neared Parnassus' sacred hill,
Lighted, re-bounded, quivered, and stood still!
At once dismounting there, the radiant god,
Gracious with smiles, the hallowed mountain trod.
His showering locks of amber, all unbound,
Shook the gold dust of shivered sunbeams round.
To greet him circling stood, with lesser stars,
Minerva, Venus, Dian, doughty Mars,
Bacchus, and Hermes: while the welkin rang
With hymning welcome, as the muses sang:
To whom Apollo: "Mighty deities!
And sisters fair! thanks for your courtesies!
Upon our circuit, through this nether sphere,
We begged your presence and your counsel here,
To grace our sessions, held to reprimand
Our laggard subjects of far Gotham-land
From which disloyal province of our state
No verbal incense have we snuffed of late.
Rarely a verse from their dull ranks appearing;
Barest of all, a song that's worth the hearing.
And, king of medicine, as well as song,
'Tis ours to physic the disordered throng.
Hence have we summoned such delinquents, then,
To rap the knuckles that refuse the pen.
Good Hermes deigns our right-hand man to be—
Our crier, clerk, and eke factotum he.
"Present the calendar! first on the page
Call Bryant!" Promptly to the lyric sage
Wings the swift god, and soon to sight is lost.
The bard he startles, busy at his "Post,"
Craving indulgence, just to sharpen still
One "leader" more on that "Nebraska Bill."
But gods are strong, and men must needs obey,
So Hermes shows him up the heavenly way.
Sensation stirred the court as he appeared,
And Muses trembled at that "eastern beard."
"Sir!" spake Apollo, "much it grieves our heart
That thou, a chosen priest of heavenly art,
Chartered to preach our faith and mysteries,
In that benighted land where Gotham lies,
Heaping, or wasting, still on gain intent,
Unwisely gotten, more unwisely spent:
Where Learning withers 'neath the golden glare,
And men are measured by the purse they wear:
And bards, cold-shouldered, passed without compassion;
And song itself 'cui-bonoed' out of fashion:
Deeply it grieves us such as thou to find,
Sowing the golden harvest of thy mind
Not on the muses' gardens of the rose,
But that most sterile waste—(excuse me)—prose."
Replied the poet, somewhat nettled, "Sire!
My lord, and master of the matchless lyre!
True, prose for bread I bartered, I confess;
But I am toiling for the freest press
And freest party in a land most free:
In short, your grace, my theme is liberty;
Unbounded liberty my aims embrace,
Without regard to nation, hue, or race:
And little boots it, when that goal we'd make,
With all respect, what vehicle we take."
"Hold!" quoth the god, "Thou dost defame the art
That knows the readiest access to the heart.
The blows of prose, like those by fists applied,
Do service in close contest, side to side;
While song throws arrows, feathered and sublime,
That range through widest space and farthest time!
Yet wouldst thou match them as of equal might;
And this from thee the muses' favorite?
And this from one that wears the laurel crown?
"With thy own weapons will I put thee down.
One lyric more from thy all-moving pen;
Another song like that of 'Marion's Men'
Would course the land, and wake in every part
More zealous freedom in the nation's heart
Than all the 'articles,' unplumed of rhyme,
The press has littered since the birth of time!"
Call Bryant!" Promptly to the lyric sage
Wings the swift god, and soon to sight is lost.
The bard he startles, busy at his "Post,"
Craving indulgence, just to sharpen still
One "leader" more on that "Nebraska Bill."
But gods are strong, and men must needs obey,
So Hermes shows him up the heavenly way.
Sensation stirred the court as he appeared,
And Muses trembled at that "eastern beard."
"Sir!" spake Apollo, "much it grieves our heart
That thou, a chosen priest of heavenly art,
Chartered to preach our faith and mysteries,
In that benighted land where Gotham lies,
Heaping, or wasting, still on gain intent,
Unwisely gotten, more unwisely spent:
Where Learning withers 'neath the golden glare,
And men are measured by the purse they wear:
And bards, cold-shouldered, passed without compassion;
And song itself 'cui-bonoed' out of fashion:
Deeply it grieves us such as thou to find,
Sowing the golden harvest of thy mind
Not on the muses' gardens of the rose,
But that most sterile waste—(excuse me)—prose."
Replied the poet, somewhat nettled, "Sire!
My lord, and master of the matchless lyre!
True, prose for bread I bartered, I confess;
But I am toiling for the freest press
And freest party in a land most free:
In short, your grace, my theme is liberty;
Unbounded liberty my aims embrace,
Without regard to nation, hue, or race:
And little boots it, when that goal we'd make,
With all respect, what vehicle we take."
"Hold!" quoth the god, "Thou dost defame the art
That knows the readiest access to the heart.
The blows of prose, like those by fists applied,
Do service in close contest, side to side;
While song throws arrows, feathered and sublime,
That range through widest space and farthest time!
Yet wouldst thou match them as of equal might;
And this from thee the muses' favorite?
And this from one that wears the laurel crown?
"With thy own weapons will I put thee down.
One lyric more from thy all-moving pen;
Another song like that of 'Marion's Men'
Would course the land, and wake in every part
More zealous freedom in the nation's heart
Than all the 'articles,' unplumed of rhyme,
The press has littered since the birth of time!"
The court is moved; the muses shout applause
At this warm tribute to the sacred cause.
The bard is fairly gagged—'t is worthy note—
By cramming his own laurels down his throat.
"Retire!" bowed Phœbus! "this your warning be:
Stand by your order, and remember me!
And now, good Mercury!" the monarch cried,
"Go summon silent Halleck to our side!"
At this warm tribute to the sacred cause.
The bard is fairly gagged—'t is worthy note—
By cramming his own laurels down his throat.
"Retire!" bowed Phœbus! "this your warning be:
Stand by your order, and remember me!
And now, good Mercury!" the monarch cried,
"Go summon silent Halleck to our side!"
'T was long before the bard, prone on the ground,
Beneath a bay-tree, fast asleep, was found:
Nor would he wake, though Hermes tweaked his ear,
And Mars, less tender, pricked him with his spear.
"What! no response!" broke Phœbus. "Cut him short!
Fine the delinquent for contempt of court!"
"Pardon!" craves Pallas, while the muses weep.
"How few who can so well afford to sleep."
At length Melpomene, a frolic miss
Among the muses, woke him with a kiss.
Yawning, and stretching to the bar, he shies:
The Judge looks dangerous from his wrathful eyes;
But soon relenting at that genial glance,
He, softening, opens thus his charge: "Advance!
We should example make of one so rude:
But 'mid our peers and gentle sisterhood
So many friends make interest in thy cause
That rigorous Justice deigns to list, and pause."
Replied the bard: "For lack of courtesy,
In presence such as this, none more than I
Could mourn his own short-comings: good my lord!
Thanks to all friends that lent me favoring word."
"Enough!" said Phœbus, as he waved his hand,
"On graver charge we've called thee to the stand.
Where is the lyre, by our too partial love
Confided, when thy earliest songs were wove,
To thy twin-brother (now no more) and thee?
Dead Drake! is Halleck, then, less dead than he?
Unstrung, abandoned to the dust, that lyre
No more awakes us with its living fire.
Thy precious gifts all flung ignobly by,
When wings should give the energy to fly;
With voice, lyre, skill, and favoring gods, O shame!
That Halleck loiters at the heels of Fame!"
Beneath a bay-tree, fast asleep, was found:
Nor would he wake, though Hermes tweaked his ear,
And Mars, less tender, pricked him with his spear.
"What! no response!" broke Phœbus. "Cut him short!
Fine the delinquent for contempt of court!"
"Pardon!" craves Pallas, while the muses weep.
"How few who can so well afford to sleep."
At length Melpomene, a frolic miss
Among the muses, woke him with a kiss.
Yawning, and stretching to the bar, he shies:
The Judge looks dangerous from his wrathful eyes;
But soon relenting at that genial glance,
He, softening, opens thus his charge: "Advance!
We should example make of one so rude:
But 'mid our peers and gentle sisterhood
So many friends make interest in thy cause
That rigorous Justice deigns to list, and pause."
Replied the bard: "For lack of courtesy,
In presence such as this, none more than I
Could mourn his own short-comings: good my lord!
Thanks to all friends that lent me favoring word."
"Enough!" said Phœbus, as he waved his hand,
"On graver charge we've called thee to the stand.
Where is the lyre, by our too partial love
Confided, when thy earliest songs were wove,
To thy twin-brother (now no more) and thee?
Dead Drake! is Halleck, then, less dead than he?
Unstrung, abandoned to the dust, that lyre
No more awakes us with its living fire.
Thy precious gifts all flung ignobly by,
When wings should give the energy to fly;
With voice, lyre, skill, and favoring gods, O shame!
That Halleck loiters at the heels of Fame!"
Quailed the poor bard: but more he felt the smart
Of self-reproach, that stung his troubled heart.
"Great Judge and Sovereign, thou hast justly spoke;
Without excuse, save what would smiles provoke.
I can but hint that, Pegasus, grown old,
Prefers to graze him in the quiet fold;
And marks the caperings, with solemn eye,
Of reckless colts careering through the sky;
And hard the task, in this poor spavined state,
To prick the veteran to a decent gait.
When bards advanced would float, and dream again
In that rare half-way heaven, the muses reign,
They 're prone, o'erbalanced by the drowsy god,
To topple over in the 'land of Nod.'
And 't were not wise, with rusty lyre, again
To claim your ears with my old-fashioned strain."
"By Jove! we fear not," shouts the god of day;
"For use will quickly wear the rust away:
And by the fame thy youth so richly won,
By thy land's hopes of her rare-gifted son.
By that posterity which looms before,
We charge you, strike that injured lyre once more!
Strike home! and fear not it will sound in vain;
'Strike! for your altars and your fires' again;
'Strike! for the green graves of your sires,' with hand
Of thrilling sweep: 'strike for your native land!'"
Of self-reproach, that stung his troubled heart.
"Great Judge and Sovereign, thou hast justly spoke;
Without excuse, save what would smiles provoke.
I can but hint that, Pegasus, grown old,
Prefers to graze him in the quiet fold;
And marks the caperings, with solemn eye,
Of reckless colts careering through the sky;
And hard the task, in this poor spavined state,
To prick the veteran to a decent gait.
When bards advanced would float, and dream again
In that rare half-way heaven, the muses reign,
They 're prone, o'erbalanced by the drowsy god,
To topple over in the 'land of Nod.'
And 't were not wise, with rusty lyre, again
To claim your ears with my old-fashioned strain."
"By Jove! we fear not," shouts the god of day;
"For use will quickly wear the rust away:
And by the fame thy youth so richly won,
By thy land's hopes of her rare-gifted son.
By that posterity which looms before,
We charge you, strike that injured lyre once more!
Strike home! and fear not it will sound in vain;
'Strike! for your altars and your fires' again;
'Strike! for the green graves of your sires,' with hand
Of thrilling sweep: 'strike for your native land!'"
Here general plaudits thundered widely round,
That all Parnassus echoed with the sound.
When Bacchus rose amid the general roar,
"Order!" cried Phœbus: "give the god the floor!"
"Our worthy host! your judgments are most sound;
But let me hint, 't is time the cup went round;
'T is hot, near you, with other reasons why,
The law is so proverbially dry."
"Ho! Ganymede; a stoup of nectar fill:
Or something stronger, as their graces will!"
That all Parnassus echoed with the sound.
When Bacchus rose amid the general roar,
"Order!" cried Phœbus: "give the god the floor!"
"Our worthy host! your judgments are most sound;
But let me hint, 't is time the cup went round;
'T is hot, near you, with other reasons why,
The law is so proverbially dry."
"Ho! Ganymede; a stoup of nectar fill:
Or something stronger, as their graces will!"
"Call General Morris!" From behind a tree
The woodman spared, where snugly hid was he,
Waiting for orders, not without some fears,
"En grande tenue" the warrior bard appears:
Salutes his great commander, and his lord;
But trips, embarrassed by his own good sword.
Tittered the muses, strange to warrior's gear,
Save Mars' scant uniform of helm and spear.
Muttered the war-god with impatient stamp:
"Some carpet-knight this; drum him from the camp!"
"Order! sweet friends!" Apollo soothed the bard:
"Thou 'lt have fair hearing, and a just reward
For trophies won of every lyric sort
To claim the favor of this noble court.
Thy casual tripping should no jest afford;
'T is hard to climb Parnassus with a sword."
"Thanks for your grace, my chief!" the minstrel sighed;
"As for my deeds, from earliest youth I 've plied
The poet's shuttle, not without success,
As songs, translated in all tongues, confess.
The woodman spared, where snugly hid was he,
Waiting for orders, not without some fears,
"En grande tenue" the warrior bard appears:
Salutes his great commander, and his lord;
But trips, embarrassed by his own good sword.
Tittered the muses, strange to warrior's gear,
Save Mars' scant uniform of helm and spear.
Muttered the war-god with impatient stamp:
"Some carpet-knight this; drum him from the camp!"
"Order! sweet friends!" Apollo soothed the bard:
"Thou 'lt have fair hearing, and a just reward
For trophies won of every lyric sort
To claim the favor of this noble court.
Thy casual tripping should no jest afford;
'T is hard to climb Parnassus with a sword."
"Thanks for your grace, my chief!" the minstrel sighed;
"As for my deeds, from earliest youth I 've plied
The poet's shuttle, not without success,
As songs, translated in all tongues, confess.
My Croton Ode, sung by three hundred men,
You must have heard it! made sensation then.
I've stood the fire on Independence Day,
And braved the muddy perils of Broadway."
"That needs some courage!" growled the god of war;
"In short, great king! my aim has been, so far
As strength is mine, to wield the sword and lyre.
I'm called the "Western Körner by my choir."
Apollo smiled, and shook his radiant head:
"Wouldst serve two masters? better one instead;
For Mars disowns thee, and each muse above
Would spurn the proffers of divided love.
Be ruled by me, and hold to song alone,
Wherein thy genial gifts have fairest shown:
Touches of Nature wed with graceful Art
That rarely fail to move the common heart.
Nor seek with double chaplets to be crowned:
One Körner only in one age is found!
You must have heard it! made sensation then.
I've stood the fire on Independence Day,
And braved the muddy perils of Broadway."
"That needs some courage!" growled the god of war;
"In short, great king! my aim has been, so far
As strength is mine, to wield the sword and lyre.
I'm called the "Western Körner by my choir."
Apollo smiled, and shook his radiant head:
"Wouldst serve two masters? better one instead;
For Mars disowns thee, and each muse above
Would spurn the proffers of divided love.
Be ruled by me, and hold to song alone,
Wherein thy genial gifts have fairest shown:
Touches of Nature wed with graceful Art
That rarely fail to move the common heart.
Nor seek with double chaplets to be crowned:
One Körner only in one age is found!
"Now, from his rural mountain-home afar,
Go summon Willis to our royal bar!"
He comes; no sooner said than done the deed:
More swift mercurial than electric speed.
To whom bright Phœbus: "Can it then be true
That thou, too, shunn'st us as the laggards do?
Thou! whom thy lady-friends with zealous glow
Once dubbed 'a young Apollo' down below?"
"Great King of Rhyme-dom! you must be aware
Nature's a feminality, most fair,
Most jealous, too, and keeps me closely tied,
With delving, sowing, reaping, at her side.
That needs my 'jottings' be confined to prose,
And 'oats-pease-bean-dom' scarce leaves time for those."
"Plausibly argued"—here Apollo smiled—
"To shield from blame thy truly idle wild.
Be Nature fair—sure poets should rehearse
Such fairest charms in fairest strains—of verse;
If jealous, surely 'ballad to her brow'
Is lover's remedy for lover's woe.
Nature 's no Quaker; and the drab of prose
Is not the tint to represent the rose.
Go summon Willis to our royal bar!"
He comes; no sooner said than done the deed:
More swift mercurial than electric speed.
To whom bright Phœbus: "Can it then be true
That thou, too, shunn'st us as the laggards do?
Thou! whom thy lady-friends with zealous glow
Once dubbed 'a young Apollo' down below?"
"Great King of Rhyme-dom! you must be aware
Nature's a feminality, most fair,
Most jealous, too, and keeps me closely tied,
With delving, sowing, reaping, at her side.
That needs my 'jottings' be confined to prose,
And 'oats-pease-bean-dom' scarce leaves time for those."
"Plausibly argued"—here Apollo smiled—
"To shield from blame thy truly idle wild.
Be Nature fair—sure poets should rehearse
Such fairest charms in fairest strains—of verse;
If jealous, surely 'ballad to her brow'
Is lover's remedy for lover's woe.
Nature 's no Quaker; and the drab of prose
Is not the tint to represent the rose.
No! with the mated songsters of the spring
Thy very lines should couple, shine, and sing!
What! live 'mid birds, without an answering song?
On mountain-heights, nor soar on numbers strong?
Among the flowers, nor twine one lyric wreath
Of grateful tribute for their fragrant breath?
'Mid autumn-woods, nor paint in words the glow?
By streams, nor seek in limpid verse to flow?
By cataracts sit, nor tune the clarion voice
In like harmonious echoes to rejoice?
Canst roam the dells by Dian's mellow blaze,
Nor weave one quiring chaplet in her praise?
Canst mark, unsung, the Pleiades? that fret
Like silver-fishes in a prisoning net?
Nor seek to hum, while choral stars are burning.
The music of their golden axles turning?
Degenerate bard! go sow your fields along
With the light-winged, far-roving seed of song!
Song such as cheered you when an unstained child,
Until fresh idyls echo through your wild!"
Thy very lines should couple, shine, and sing!
What! live 'mid birds, without an answering song?
On mountain-heights, nor soar on numbers strong?
Among the flowers, nor twine one lyric wreath
Of grateful tribute for their fragrant breath?
'Mid autumn-woods, nor paint in words the glow?
By streams, nor seek in limpid verse to flow?
By cataracts sit, nor tune the clarion voice
In like harmonious echoes to rejoice?
Canst roam the dells by Dian's mellow blaze,
Nor weave one quiring chaplet in her praise?
Canst mark, unsung, the Pleiades? that fret
Like silver-fishes in a prisoning net?
Nor seek to hum, while choral stars are burning.
The music of their golden axles turning?
Degenerate bard! go sow your fields along
With the light-winged, far-roving seed of song!
Song such as cheered you when an unstained child,
Until fresh idyls echo through your wild!"
"Call Palmer! hold! saving too little done,
Who sings so well needs no advice. Pass on!
"Stay!" Next following, comes our favorite, Hoffman."
Minerva pleads; "now, sacred from our sway,
He walks Hesperian gardens, plucking fruit;
Or groves Elysian in some flower-pursuit:
There, in rare dreams, on braver wings to soar
Than even his gallant fancy dared before."
The goddess ceased: all read, at once, that heard.
The bard's sad fate in her mysterious word:
Storm-driven, wing-broken, baffled, whirling still
Through the same heaven where he had plied at will;
And all recalled the long, o'ershadowed years
Of his waste-wanderings with unbidden tears!
Who sings so well needs no advice. Pass on!
"Stay!" Next following, comes our favorite, Hoffman."
Minerva pleads; "now, sacred from our sway,
He walks Hesperian gardens, plucking fruit;
Or groves Elysian in some flower-pursuit:
There, in rare dreams, on braver wings to soar
Than even his gallant fancy dared before."
The goddess ceased: all read, at once, that heard.
The bard's sad fate in her mysterious word:
Storm-driven, wing-broken, baffled, whirling still
Through the same heaven where he had plied at will;
And all recalled the long, o'ershadowed years
Of his waste-wanderings with unbidden tears!
"Now summon Paulding from his snug retreat!"
He moves sedately to the judgment-seat.
"What purpose, Sire! subpœnaed from afar,
Juror or witness, bids me to thy bar?"
"No witness thou! thvself defendant art.
Attend!" cried Phœbus, "and I will impart:
In youth you flattered me with song and lute,
Courted my sisters with impassioned suit;
Half-won, then jilted, first for vulgar prose,
And last for thorny office, spurned the rose;
Ever earth-plodding, though full-winged for air.
Bethink you, Sir! if 't is not hard to bear?"
Replied the bard: "My lord! 't is soon confessed;
I've had my school-boy fancies, like the rest;
But riper years, and themes of deeper truth
Chased, as they should, the follies of my youth."
Here a deep murmur rose; nor only this;
Among the muses something like a hiss;
So sharp a fling to rouse the god was sure.
"Would that thy manhood's follies were as pure!
The games of wealth and power are noble joys!
While song, great gods! is well enough for boys!
Your worldly wisdom, Sir, is but half-wise.
Then, know you not that feeling, at the rise,
Like mountain-stream, flows purest from its spring?
And early loves are of Heaven's whispering?
Aye I the song-bias that the young heart cheers
Betrays its kindred to harmonious spheres."
He moves sedately to the judgment-seat.
"What purpose, Sire! subpœnaed from afar,
Juror or witness, bids me to thy bar?"
"No witness thou! thvself defendant art.
Attend!" cried Phœbus, "and I will impart:
In youth you flattered me with song and lute,
Courted my sisters with impassioned suit;
Half-won, then jilted, first for vulgar prose,
And last for thorny office, spurned the rose;
Ever earth-plodding, though full-winged for air.
Bethink you, Sir! if 't is not hard to bear?"
Replied the bard: "My lord! 't is soon confessed;
I've had my school-boy fancies, like the rest;
But riper years, and themes of deeper truth
Chased, as they should, the follies of my youth."
Here a deep murmur rose; nor only this;
Among the muses something like a hiss;
So sharp a fling to rouse the god was sure.
"Would that thy manhood's follies were as pure!
The games of wealth and power are noble joys!
While song, great gods! is well enough for boys!
Your worldly wisdom, Sir, is but half-wise.
Then, know you not that feeling, at the rise,
Like mountain-stream, flows purest from its spring?
And early loves are of Heaven's whispering?
Aye I the song-bias that the young heart cheers
Betrays its kindred to harmonious spheres."
"Pardon, my lord! I had no thought to wound
Your party-feelings here on your own ground;
Where such majorities are on your side
To 'take the stump' were rash," the bard replied;
"I would but say—what might be left unsaid—
That by the favor of the nation's head
I rose, you know, to honors in the state;
And those who once have mated with the great
Should guard their dignity, and keep them free
From light amusements, graceful though they be.
In this, 'gainst Poesy I take no part;
Which, in its way, is quite a pretty art."
Your party-feelings here on your own ground;
Where such majorities are on your side
To 'take the stump' were rash," the bard replied;
"I would but say—what might be left unsaid—
That by the favor of the nation's head
I rose, you know, to honors in the state;
And those who once have mated with the great
Should guard their dignity, and keep them free
From light amusements, graceful though they be.
In this, 'gainst Poesy I take no part;
Which, in its way, is quite a pretty art."
Here groans tumultuous through the court are stirred,
While over all Apollo's voice is heard.
Scornful, and radiant in his heavenly ire,
He stood sublime! and poured his words of fire:
"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?
Where the strong laws that riveted the state?
Or they that made them, or that by them ruled?
How has stern Time their windy pride befooled!
Whirled them, and sunk them as he swiftly bore,
Or strewed in wrecks on his remorseless shore!
Man's works must crumble; even Art, most strong;
And naught endures but Truth and mighty Song!
"Who were High Chancellors in Homer's day?
What lordling's chariot brushed him by the way?
What man of power that voice of ages hired
To while a dull hour when his grace was tired?
None answer, while the minstrel's song of fire
Comes to our ears, as from a seraph-choir,
As fresh, as living as when poured the tone
From the blind harper sitting on his stone!
Think you Mecænas had survived the dead
Had he not linked him with the bards he fed?
Then they were great because the great man smiled,
And drew false fame from him for whom they toiled.
Now, turned the tables, 't is their buoyant lays
Have borne his honors to succeeding days.
You spoke of Bacon, not because of place,
But, spite of it, he won th' immortal race.
Blending all powers, he mastered law and fact,
But 'of imagination all compact,'
To bold invention's loftiest peaks arose,
And was a poet in the garb of prose.
Great statesmen lived, not breathing air sublime,
Howe'er renowned, they perished with their time.
Laws are man's pride; and every praise we yield
The wise who frame them, or the strong who wield;
Needful, like bread, in man's imperfect state
To body politic or corporate:
The means of life; but, health and order found,
What is the end by which the whole is crowned?
The flower of this well-fed and rooted tree?
Oh! need I say it? 't is sweet Poesy!
Who takes our arm in childhood's roving hours,
To lead us wondering through fresh fairy bowers;
Admits, through sunset's golden bars, the gaze
To inner temples of imperial blaze;
Uplifts the rainbow, a triumphal arch
Sprung over hosts angelic on their march;
Throws us on clouds to bask, or softly slides,
Voluptuous rushing! down their fleecy sides;
Whose wondrous chemistry transforms the mist
That robes the hills to veils of amethyst;
O'er common objects holds a glass of rose,
And common paths with hopeless blossoms sows;
And shading rum with her ivy-wreath,
She crowns with amaranth the brow of Death;
Cloaking the scars of evil that we see,
To make things seem as we would have them be.
Always in season, her sweet, constant flowers,
To grace our festive or our mourning hours.
Yes! Poesy was sent to fallen earth
To wake afresh the graces of its birth.
'T is hers 'to gild refined gold' alone,
And 'lilies paint' with hues that quench their own;
Still garlanding young beauty with her flowers;
Still dropping honey on our sweetest hours!
'Mid odors wafting us from birth to doom,
To wake, half-risen to the heaven to come!"
"How poor the power of statesmen, sages, kings!
To his whose words, abroad on mighty wings,
(Sun-drawn exhalings of th' eternal seas!)
Rush over nations with their tempest-breeze!
O'ershadowing, thundering, showering in all parts:
Watering the growing graces of all hearts!
That in all moods that range from smiles to tears,
Come humming like sweet birds about our ears;
Drowning our groans, and setting husky sighs
To tenderest music, while our dancing joys
Tread double measure when those pipes do play.
And when poor life is foundering, and gives way,
Like hovering seraphs through the breakers' roar
Pilot the spirit to the tranquil shore!
"Above, around, we find no deep recess
Their music reaches not, to rouse or bless;
Quickening the traveller's step to measure time
Unwearied, with th' imperial march of rhyme;
Cheering brown Toil, and when the day grows dim
Hallowing his musings with their evening hymn.
The infant's lullaby, the mother's prayer,
The soldier's charge, the lover's fond despair
Sweetening the moonlight with his murmuring;
All loftiest soarings from his numbers spring.
The patriot glows that feels the poet's dart
Flaming and piercing, while the pious heart
Mounts in adoring rapture, and high praise
To heavenly portals on his white-winged lays!"
While over all Apollo's voice is heard.
Scornful, and radiant in his heavenly ire,
He stood sublime! and poured his words of fire:
"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?
Where the strong laws that riveted the state?
Or they that made them, or that by them ruled?
How has stern Time their windy pride befooled!
Whirled them, and sunk them as he swiftly bore,
Or strewed in wrecks on his remorseless shore!
Man's works must crumble; even Art, most strong;
And naught endures but Truth and mighty Song!
"Who were High Chancellors in Homer's day?
What lordling's chariot brushed him by the way?
What man of power that voice of ages hired
To while a dull hour when his grace was tired?
None answer, while the minstrel's song of fire
Comes to our ears, as from a seraph-choir,
As fresh, as living as when poured the tone
From the blind harper sitting on his stone!
Think you Mecænas had survived the dead
Had he not linked him with the bards he fed?
Then they were great because the great man smiled,
And drew false fame from him for whom they toiled.
Now, turned the tables, 't is their buoyant lays
Have borne his honors to succeeding days.
You spoke of Bacon, not because of place,
But, spite of it, he won th' immortal race.
Blending all powers, he mastered law and fact,
But 'of imagination all compact,'
To bold invention's loftiest peaks arose,
And was a poet in the garb of prose.
Great statesmen lived, not breathing air sublime,
Howe'er renowned, they perished with their time.
Laws are man's pride; and every praise we yield
The wise who frame them, or the strong who wield;
Needful, like bread, in man's imperfect state
To body politic or corporate:
The means of life; but, health and order found,
What is the end by which the whole is crowned?
The flower of this well-fed and rooted tree?
Oh! need I say it? 't is sweet Poesy!
Who takes our arm in childhood's roving hours,
To lead us wondering through fresh fairy bowers;
Admits, through sunset's golden bars, the gaze
To inner temples of imperial blaze;
Uplifts the rainbow, a triumphal arch
Sprung over hosts angelic on their march;
Throws us on clouds to bask, or softly slides,
Voluptuous rushing! down their fleecy sides;
Whose wondrous chemistry transforms the mist
That robes the hills to veils of amethyst;
O'er common objects holds a glass of rose,
And common paths with hopeless blossoms sows;
And shading rum with her ivy-wreath,
She crowns with amaranth the brow of Death;
Cloaking the scars of evil that we see,
To make things seem as we would have them be.
Always in season, her sweet, constant flowers,
To grace our festive or our mourning hours.
Yes! Poesy was sent to fallen earth
To wake afresh the graces of its birth.
'T is hers 'to gild refined gold' alone,
And 'lilies paint' with hues that quench their own;
Still garlanding young beauty with her flowers;
Still dropping honey on our sweetest hours!
'Mid odors wafting us from birth to doom,
To wake, half-risen to the heaven to come!"
"How poor the power of statesmen, sages, kings!
To his whose words, abroad on mighty wings,
(Sun-drawn exhalings of th' eternal seas!)
Rush over nations with their tempest-breeze!
O'ershadowing, thundering, showering in all parts:
Watering the growing graces of all hearts!
That in all moods that range from smiles to tears,
Come humming like sweet birds about our ears;
Drowning our groans, and setting husky sighs
To tenderest music, while our dancing joys
Tread double measure when those pipes do play.
And when poor life is foundering, and gives way,
Like hovering seraphs through the breakers' roar
Pilot the spirit to the tranquil shore!
"Above, around, we find no deep recess
Their music reaches not, to rouse or bless;
Quickening the traveller's step to measure time
Unwearied, with th' imperial march of rhyme;
Cheering brown Toil, and when the day grows dim
Hallowing his musings with their evening hymn.
The infant's lullaby, the mother's prayer,
The soldier's charge, the lover's fond despair
Sweetening the moonlight with his murmuring;
All loftiest soarings from his numbers spring.
The patriot glows that feels the poet's dart
Flaming and piercing, while the pious heart
Mounts in adoring rapture, and high praise
To heavenly portals on his white-winged lays!"
The Judge, exhausted, rested from his text
Till cheered with nectar: "Summon Flaccus next.
Not great Horaius of immortal fame:
The modern wit that has usurped his name.
Swift Hermes flew by forest, stream, and heath,
At length returning, gasped, quite out of breath,
"I've bawled till hoarse, and vainly, Sire! 't is clear
He 's so far down the hill he can not hear;
Or thinks, discreetly hiding from all eyes,
"When hail-stones fall to keep within is wise."
"Who 's next? Mark Benjamin!" "My lord! 't is Park!"
"Park! Park! art sure? Well, call him! Stay! hark! hark!"
Here thunders muttered rudely overhead.
Great Phœbus paused; while Bacchus rose and said:
"Your Grace must not forget we dine above
On high Olympus, at the 'quest of Jove;
And if aright these murmurings I read,
The Thunderer grows impatient———" "True, indeed."
Quoth Phœbus; "Mercury! we 're pressed for time;
Call you the list. We 'll score these sons of rhyme.
Nor need they wriggle, should we prick their nerves;
For spice, more sure than blandest sweet, preserves:
Safe in the pickle of our pungent line,
That longest keeps, when strongest is the brine!"
"Here's Moore!" "Respectable." "Here's Smith!" "Pass on!"
"Ralph Hoyt!" His spiriting is gently done."
"Here's Coxe!" "Diffuse." "Here's Richard Haywared!" "Better."
"Here's Cheever's florid muse!" "I never met her."
"Next, Aldrich!" "Humph!" "And Tuckerman!" "Well! well!"
"And Stoddard!" "Quaint—yet blows a dainty shell."
"CRANCH!" "Paints well." "Osborn!" "Shows us in his line
The 'Vision,'[1] not the faculty divine."
"Wallace!" "He's strong—stay Hermes! let us see—
What did he write?" "And Huntington!" "Who's he?"
"Here's TAYLOR!" "Bold." "Bethue!" "Make haste! my lad."
"Fay!" "Not too good." "And Mathews!" "Not too bad."
"She-Bards, strong-minded, big with women's wrongs
Come next." "Do n't touch them with a pair of tongs!"
Till cheered with nectar: "Summon Flaccus next.
Not great Horaius of immortal fame:
The modern wit that has usurped his name.
Swift Hermes flew by forest, stream, and heath,
At length returning, gasped, quite out of breath,
"I've bawled till hoarse, and vainly, Sire! 't is clear
He 's so far down the hill he can not hear;
Or thinks, discreetly hiding from all eyes,
"When hail-stones fall to keep within is wise."
"Who 's next? Mark Benjamin!" "My lord! 't is Park!"
"Park! Park! art sure? Well, call him! Stay! hark! hark!"
Here thunders muttered rudely overhead.
Great Phœbus paused; while Bacchus rose and said:
"Your Grace must not forget we dine above
On high Olympus, at the 'quest of Jove;
And if aright these murmurings I read,
The Thunderer grows impatient———" "True, indeed."
Quoth Phœbus; "Mercury! we 're pressed for time;
Call you the list. We 'll score these sons of rhyme.
Nor need they wriggle, should we prick their nerves;
For spice, more sure than blandest sweet, preserves:
Safe in the pickle of our pungent line,
That longest keeps, when strongest is the brine!"
"Here's Moore!" "Respectable." "Here's Smith!" "Pass on!"
"Ralph Hoyt!" His spiriting is gently done."
"Here's Coxe!" "Diffuse." "Here's Richard Haywared!" "Better."
"Here's Cheever's florid muse!" "I never met her."
"Next, Aldrich!" "Humph!" "And Tuckerman!" "Well! well!"
"And Stoddard!" "Quaint—yet blows a dainty shell."
"CRANCH!" "Paints well." "Osborn!" "Shows us in his line
The 'Vision,'[1] not the faculty divine."
"Wallace!" "He's strong—stay Hermes! let us see—
What did he write?" "And Huntington!" "Who's he?"
"Here's TAYLOR!" "Bold." "Bethue!" "Make haste! my lad."
"Fay!" "Not too good." "And Mathews!" "Not too bad."
"She-Bards, strong-minded, big with women's wrongs
Come next." "Do n't touch them with a pair of tongs!"
Here louder thunderings all the welkin shook.
"Call up the rest of Dr. Griswold's book!
At least, all minstrels that from Gotham hail."
On this, there gathered, following Hermes' trail,
A motley crew of varied power and grade.
Far down, a group of laggards shout for aid:
"Help, there! good Mercury! 't is the toughest hill!
And we 're quite blown———" "Who wake these echoes shrill?"
"Sire! these are followers of the camp of rhyme,
Swollen with the wish without the breath to climb;
Some, novelists, that give us no new thing;
Translators some, that nothing with them bring;
Some, wrights of plays; all dullest sport exceeding;
Some, lecturers, whose tasks betray no reading,
Whose fat vocation threatens to command
All unrewarded talent of the land.
All stoop to song when they can tune afford;
And feed the Muse with droppings of their board.
As if their crumbs her pride could fail to spurn,
When their choice dishes would her stomach turn!
Rank borrowers these, though that is nothing rare,
For such, somewhat, their laurelled elders are,
Only more cunningly the theft concealing.
Your Grace will pass so light a fault as stealing?"
"We 'll pass them wholly!" burst th' indignant god;
"Nor waste on vanity the hopeless rod.
Let groundlings bend their strength to fitlier things;
Parnassus' heights are only won by wings!"
"Pass on! What hungry group now stops the way?"
"Sire! these be wights of larger wit than pay;
Some, care-worn scribblers for th' exacting press,
Booksellers' hacks, reviewers, in their stress
Obliged, on hire, applause or blame to utter
At a hard master's beck, for bread and butter;
And some, too noble, 't is relief to think,
To dip their free pens in corrosive ink."
So dense a litter of prolific rhyme,
Parnassus ne'er had harbored at a time:
To whom the Judge: "Forgive unseemly haste!
Most worthy friends! but there 's no time to waste.
Some have done well, though here some doubt may rise;
Some ill—this truth there 's no body denies.
Hail! and farewell! we charge you, to a man,
For Heaven's sake, write better, if you can!
The Court's adjourned!" At once the Muses raise
A joyous choral in Apollo's praise.
The god bows thanks; his dazzling car ascends,
And gives his last charge to his thronging friends:
"Call up the rest of Dr. Griswold's book!
At least, all minstrels that from Gotham hail."
On this, there gathered, following Hermes' trail,
A motley crew of varied power and grade.
Far down, a group of laggards shout for aid:
"Help, there! good Mercury! 't is the toughest hill!
And we 're quite blown———" "Who wake these echoes shrill?"
"Sire! these are followers of the camp of rhyme,
Swollen with the wish without the breath to climb;
Some, novelists, that give us no new thing;
Translators some, that nothing with them bring;
Some, wrights of plays; all dullest sport exceeding;
Some, lecturers, whose tasks betray no reading,
Whose fat vocation threatens to command
All unrewarded talent of the land.
All stoop to song when they can tune afford;
And feed the Muse with droppings of their board.
As if their crumbs her pride could fail to spurn,
When their choice dishes would her stomach turn!
Rank borrowers these, though that is nothing rare,
For such, somewhat, their laurelled elders are,
Only more cunningly the theft concealing.
Your Grace will pass so light a fault as stealing?"
"We 'll pass them wholly!" burst th' indignant god;
"Nor waste on vanity the hopeless rod.
Let groundlings bend their strength to fitlier things;
Parnassus' heights are only won by wings!"
"Pass on! What hungry group now stops the way?"
"Sire! these be wights of larger wit than pay;
Some, care-worn scribblers for th' exacting press,
Booksellers' hacks, reviewers, in their stress
Obliged, on hire, applause or blame to utter
At a hard master's beck, for bread and butter;
And some, too noble, 't is relief to think,
To dip their free pens in corrosive ink."
So dense a litter of prolific rhyme,
Parnassus ne'er had harbored at a time:
To whom the Judge: "Forgive unseemly haste!
Most worthy friends! but there 's no time to waste.
Some have done well, though here some doubt may rise;
Some ill—this truth there 's no body denies.
Hail! and farewell! we charge you, to a man,
For Heaven's sake, write better, if you can!
The Court's adjourned!" At once the Muses raise
A joyous choral in Apollo's praise.
The god bows thanks; his dazzling car ascends,
And gives his last charge to his thronging friends:
"Bards of the West! your country claims your voice.
Mark how old Europe's hills and streams rejoice!
Happy with minstrels to announce their name
To every passing age, with proud acclaim.
Sound! sound the lyre! 't is Phœbus' last command:
Grand, ringing rhymes should peal around the land.
Clear the fogged heavens with new thunder-strokes!
Strike with a fire to rend all hearts like oaks!
Mountains are groaning for a lyric name;
Rivers implore the choral wreath of Fame;
Cataracts are shouting for young minstrelsy
To set their roar to music not to die.
Sound! sound the lyre! your heroes, slain too long,
Start from the field to claim new life of Song.
Your brothers' blood calls loudly from the ground.
Sound! ere the martyred ghosts confound you, sound!
Let them not die a second death, more sad,
From lapse of aught your saving art might add.
Sound! for the land's gray fathers, yet once more,
Whose mighty shadows cloud the Stygian shore;
Launch their proud names on ever-rushing rhyme!
Shrine them in niches to confront all tune!
Set their bold portraits in the golden frame
Of song! and hang them on the walls of fame!"
Apollo ceased, and waved his last adieu!
Seized on the reins, and dashed along the blue.
The crowd, dissolving, scattered down the hill.
Homeward I followed, shocked to witness still
As each, returning, went his usual round,
What poor return the god's good counsel found.
Bryant went scribbling "leaders" as before;
And Willis, prosy idyls yet once more;
While drowsy Halleck laid him in his cloak,
To close the nap the intruding god had broke:
So must advice unrelished be put by!
Once more I turned me to the glowing sky,
Fired by the glory of Apollo's car,
O'er sapphire pavement spinning fast and far,
When the rude poker woke me with a clang!
The bubble burst! the coursers diverse sprang!
And through the dazzling fragments, all amazed,
On the tame glory of the grate I gazed!
Who jogged my elbow? Was it goddess fair?
Or Muse to charm me with a chaunted air?
Or Ganymede, with nectar held to me?
Only good spouse with cup of homely tea!
Mark how old Europe's hills and streams rejoice!
Happy with minstrels to announce their name
To every passing age, with proud acclaim.
Sound! sound the lyre! 't is Phœbus' last command:
Grand, ringing rhymes should peal around the land.
Clear the fogged heavens with new thunder-strokes!
Strike with a fire to rend all hearts like oaks!
Mountains are groaning for a lyric name;
Rivers implore the choral wreath of Fame;
Cataracts are shouting for young minstrelsy
To set their roar to music not to die.
Sound! sound the lyre! your heroes, slain too long,
Start from the field to claim new life of Song.
Your brothers' blood calls loudly from the ground.
Sound! ere the martyred ghosts confound you, sound!
Let them not die a second death, more sad,
From lapse of aught your saving art might add.
Sound! for the land's gray fathers, yet once more,
Whose mighty shadows cloud the Stygian shore;
Launch their proud names on ever-rushing rhyme!
Shrine them in niches to confront all tune!
Set their bold portraits in the golden frame
Of song! and hang them on the walls of fame!"
Apollo ceased, and waved his last adieu!
Seized on the reins, and dashed along the blue.
The crowd, dissolving, scattered down the hill.
Homeward I followed, shocked to witness still
As each, returning, went his usual round,
What poor return the god's good counsel found.
Bryant went scribbling "leaders" as before;
And Willis, prosy idyls yet once more;
While drowsy Halleck laid him in his cloak,
To close the nap the intruding god had broke:
So must advice unrelished be put by!
Once more I turned me to the glowing sky,
Fired by the glory of Apollo's car,
O'er sapphire pavement spinning fast and far,
When the rude poker woke me with a clang!
The bubble burst! the coursers diverse sprang!
And through the dazzling fragments, all amazed,
On the tame glory of the grate I gazed!
Who jogged my elbow? Was it goddess fair?
Or Muse to charm me with a chaunted air?
Or Ganymede, with nectar held to me?
Only good spouse with cup of homely tea!
- ↑ The Vision of Kubeta.