Tiresias, and Other Poems/Epilogue
EPILOGUE.
Irene.Not this way will you set your nameA star among the stars.
Poet.What way?
Irene.You praise when you should blameThe barbarism of wars.A juster epoch has begun.
Poet. Yet tho' this cheek be gray,And that bright hair the modern sun, Those eyes the blue to-day,You wrong me, passionate little friend.I would that wars should cease,I would the globe from end to endMight sow and reap in peace,And some new Spirit o'erbear the old,Or Trade re-frain the PowersFrom war with kindly links of gold,Or Love with wreaths of flowers.Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them allMy friends and brother souls,With all the peoples, great and small,That wheel between the poles.But since our mortal shadow, Ill,To waste this earth began—Perchance from some abuse of WillIn worlds before the man Involving ours—he needs must fightTo make true peace his own,He needs must combat might with might,Or Might would rule alone;And who loves War for War's own sakeIs fool, or crazed, or worse;But let the patriot-soldier takeHis meed of fame in verse;Nay—tho' that realm were in the wrongFor which her warriors bleed,It still were right to crown with songThe warrior's noble deed—A crown the Singer hopes may last,For so the deed endures;But Song will vanish in the Vast;And that large phrase of yours'A Star among the stars,' my dear, Is girlish talk at best;For dare we dally with the sphereAs he did half in jest,Old Horace? 'I will strike' said he'The stars with head sublime,'But scarce could see, as now we see,The man in Space and Time,So drew perchance a happier lotThan ours, who rhyme to-day.The fires that arch this dusky dot—Yon myriad-worlded way—The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze,World-isles in lonely skies,Whole heavens within themselves, amazeOur brief humanities;And so does Earth; for Homer's fame,Tho' carved in harder stone— The falling drop will make his nameAs mortal as my own.
Irene.No!
Poet.Let it live then—ay, till when?Earth passes, all is lostIn what they prophesy, our wise men,Sun-flame or sunless frost,And deed and song alike are sweptAway, and all in vainAs far as man can see, exceptThe man himself remain;And tho', in this lean age forlorn,Too many a voice may cryThat man can have no after-morn,Not yet of these am I. The man remains, and whatsoe'erHe wrought of good or braveWill mould him thro' the cycle-yearThat dawns behind the grave.
And here the Singer for his ArtNot all in vain may pleadThe song that nerves a nation's heart,Is in itself a deed.'
And here the Singer for his ArtNot all in vain may pleadThe song that nerves a nation's heart,Is in itself a deed.'