________________________________________________
Title: The Poet
Author: Walter R. Cassels [
More Titles by Cassels]
You might think, to look upon them with their arms around each other,
And the tale that he is breathing softly crimsoned on her cheek,
That a sweeter spell enwound them than the love she bears a brother,
And that sweeter words are spoken than the words that brothers speak.
For, fair one, she loves him dearly, dearly as a woman's spirit
Full of gentleness and beauty loves all pure and holy things,
Just as though some blessed angel, screened from sight, were floating near it,
Fanning every tender feeling into motion with its wings.
So she hears with echoed rapture hopes that in his breast are swelling,
Of the glory and the honour that have sunned his poet's dream,
Charmed him by their bright illusion madly from his quiet dwelling
To immerse him in life's ocean, there to lose him like a stream.
Ay! look in her eyes, poor poet, kiss the tears that tremble brightly
On their fringes till thou deem'st them her pure soul distill'd for thee,
They are true ones, they are fond ones, and that vision, coming nightly,
May refresh thee like a fountain rising 'mid sterility.
Backward from her upturned beauty did he smooth the golden tresses,
That Madonna-like fell clust'ring round the softness of her cheek;
'Twas a frank one, and a fair one, with the grace that truth impresses
Beaming o'er it without shadow, so he gazed but did not speak.
Then he whispered, "Bright May, dear May, in the world where I am going,
Going, it may be unwisely, but some magic draws me on,
There to win the fame and honour with whose fire my soul is glowing,
Thou shalt be my guiding angel, thou shalt be my helicon.
I will paint thee in my verses, thee, so beautiful and tender,
Till that world shall thrill with pleasure, and pure hearts shall cherish thee;
Bright May, dear May, they will love thee, and thy gentleness shall render
Earth again a sunny Eden dedicate to Poesy.
They will crown me for thy beauty, they will love me for thy sweetness,
They will shrine my name in glory, hear it like a household thing,
They will feel the spell of beauty, think of heaven for thy meetness,
Thus I'll do the poet's mission, thou an angel's ministring."
So he went into the wide world with bright hopes around him playing,
Youth to make his footsteps buoyant, and firm trust to nerve his heart,
Fame and glory clear before him like a sun the path arraying,
Witless that the golden vision of his dreams could ere depart.
II.
There are thousands in the highways buffeting the waves beside them,
Struggling onward without respite in pursuit of sandbuilt gain;
There are thousands sinking daily, but the selfish crowd deride them,
Only hurry on the swifter--there's no time to pity pain.
Ah! what hope for thee, poor poet! in the race that they are running,
When the jar of stormy passions makes thy temples wildly beat;
Can'st thou wrestle with the torrent, can'st thou stand against their cunning,
Who will crush thee without mercy, like a flower beneath their feet.
Wherefore did'st thou leave thy dwelling 'mid the calm and pleasant places,
Where no sorrow came to rouse thee from the heaven of thy dreams,
Where the wood-birds gave thee music, and the path the wild bee traces
For its sweetness thou could'st follow, or repose by gentle streams.
O poor world! immersed in folly, O dull world! that will not hearken
To the music of a Poet singing of the Beautiful,
Close your heart against its teaching, though it be so sweet, and darken
All the sunshine of the spirit by the coldness of your rule.
* * * * *
Who would bid us draw the curtain that conceals the poet's sorrow,
Who would need to hear his anguish when they look upon his brow,--
It is written there in tracings far more true than tongue could borrow,
It is brimming in his glances, once so bright, so woeful now.
Gaze upon him! dost thou know him? to his long-left home returning,
For his step is very feeble, and his cheek is very pale,
And amid it like a sunset is the hectic plague-spot burning,
Ye who know no shatter'd hope-dreams, gaze upon him--there's the tale!
O the holy love of woman! O the gentle love of woman!
Breathing like a balmy zephyr on the fever'd brows of care,
Centrate sweetness of all sweetness, only in its sorrow human,
Joy without you were a phantom, grief without you were despair!
See! how tenderly she leads him with her arm around him pressing,
As to shield him from the rough world that had wrought him so much woe,
And his eyes are filled with moisture, scarcely can he breathe his blessing,
But she feels it in the throbbing of his full heart as they go.
Gaze again into her kind eyes, gaze into them, weary poet,
Fill thy soul with holy calmness from the fountain of her love,
If there's peace for thy poor spirit in this earth they will bestow it,
For she is a gentle angel sent to bless thee from above.
And she said, as she bent o'er him, half in language, half in glances,
For there is a hidden meaning far too deep for words to tell,
"We will dwell," she said, "with nature, nourishing all gentle fancies,
And the lark shall be our minstrel, and the flowers shall love us well."
So he smiled upon her gently with a glance more sad than weeping,
That a bitter thrill ran through her like a harp struck suddenly,
And she thought upon the summer with cold shadows o'er it creeping,
And she thought upon the flowers fading on the mossy lea.
But she turn'd her till the paleness, and the tears that would be flowing
Faded from her that they might not be the mirrors of his own;
Smiling comfort on him ever, evermore as they were going,
For she said "Ah! there are none to smile on him but I alone."
III.
He is lying in the sunshine with the blithe birds round him singing,
There are flowers beside his pillow, there are flowers beneath his feet,
Summer pours her treasures round him, like a gentle maiden flinging
Fragrant blossoms from her bosom o'er a path to make it sweet.
She is kneeling in the sunshine with the radiant glory o'er her,
And his palm is on her tresses, her's are folded on her breast;
He were very calm and happy, only for the love he bore her,
Which was far too sweet a feeling to resign it e'en for rest.
"Bright May! dear May! draw still nearer, nearer, dear May! till my spirit
Sun itself within your brightness, as the lark doth in the day;
Soon the air will be so lumined that my weakness will not bear it,
So I'll gather new strength from thee to support me on my way.
"There are tears within your eyes, May, let me kiss them from your eyes, May,
They will taste as sweet to me as do the dews upon the rose;
Dear eyes how I love them! they oft tell me of the skies, May,
Tell me secrets of the Blessed more than mortal spirit knows.
"Ah! I knew not in the old time half the sweetness that doth linger
Round the simple things of Nature which the proud heart passes by,
Now I see there's not a wildflower but doth point with warning finger,
To the unobservant passer, truths of immortality.
"Bright May, thou shalt be my beadsman, and thy golden tresses drooping
Round thee shall be all the vesture that my loving soul shall seek;
Thou shalt be a meet confessor for a lowly poet stooping
To breathe forth his secret failings, and read pardon on thy cheek.
"Bright May! I have been a strayer from the narrow path that wanders
Through this world to lead the traveller to a glad eternity,
I have been an erring madman, for the blind heart never ponders
Till the fancied light it follows lead it from felicity.
"I have been most false and perjured, false to all a poet's duty,
Even whilst my heart was boasting proudly of a poet's creed,
I have loudly claimed the title of a worshipper of beauty,
Yet could gaze upon a flower till I thought it but a weed.
"Yes! I dwelt amid the woodlands with bright streamlets singing round me,
Sunny dells, moss-paven alleys, and cool shades to ramble in;
All was happy, all was peaceful, yet e'en there ambition found me,
Charm'd me forth into the rough world to engulph me in its din.
"Yes! I wearied of the woodlands, of the streams and sunny places
Where I lay me in the summer to dream all the noontide o'er,
Like the child of a sweet mother lapt within her fond embraces
Drawing fitness from her beauty to lisp forth in poet's lore.
But the time is drawing nigh; now, when my soul sublimed from folly
Shall see all things in their trueness, with no sun-veil drawn between;
Know that glory is mere weakness and that aim alone is holy
Which, wrought out in life with patience, fits man for a higher scene.
[The end]
Walter R. Cassels's poem: Poet
________________________________________________
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
