Classic Poem

Listen! poets, loving-hearted,
Here abiding—hence departed;
Ye who ranged the realms above
Seeking symbols of your love;
Provence bards and Persian Saadis
Eloquently lauding ladies;
Frauenlob—the Minnesinger
Mourned of maidens—and that bringer
Of delight to camp and grove,
Camoens, the Lord of love;
Praise as proudly as ye list,
All the honeyed lips ye kissed;
Vaunt your true loves' violet eyes,
Vow them bluer than the skies;
Swear no south-wind ever came
Sweet and soft as she you name;
Nor no lily ever grew
White as that which bloomed for you!
Look! I fling you down a glove
In one dear name that I love—
Never hand so fair and fine
As my lady's—Katharine.

Yes! I know it—Father Homer!
Too long in thy rolls a roamer
Not to know how radiant-mighty
Rose the sea-born Aphrodite;
Yes! I know the pearly splendor
Of that hand, whose curvings tender,
Silver glinting under gold,
Combed away the sea-foam bold.
And I worship, bending low,
Herë's awful arm of snow;
And of mortal boldness shorn
Hail the Rosy-fingered Morn;
But those Gods above the thunder
Are for fear and reverent wonder;
She whose gentle hand I praise
Woman is, with woman's ways,
And I hold this gage of mine
None a hand—like Katharine.

All the bards that lips have kissed
Enter angry on the list,
And the legions that appear,
Might move any heart to fear.
Lo! Athenian Sophocles—
Virgil, too, my fancy sees—
And I sink my spear-head bright
As beseemeth younger knight;
And I kneel, but not to yield,
For I keep the tented field—
Vowing no such hand was seen
Were Electra twice a Queen,
And Lavinia's hue as fair
As 't was bragged in Latin air:
Nay, nor falter for Sibylla,
Or the careless-eyed Camilla,
Though her wounded wrist did shine
Likest “ivory, stained with wine;”
Let them go, my noble Masters,
With a sigh for Love's disasters,
And the challenge—none so fine!
None a hand—like Katharine.

Dante! spirit sad and lone!
Laughing love thou hast not known;
Weeping love attends on thee,
With its mortal mystery;
And thine Angel, Beatrice,
Aweth with her hand of ice.
Thou, Petrarca! dost thou frown?
Lay thy latest sonnet down!
Set thy shining lance in rest!
For I tilt upon thy breast:
Say'st thou, “like a curving shell,
Where the tender pink does dwell,”
Gleamed thy Laura's milky hand?
Lo! I read it! and I stand
Firm of foot to make it seem,
Even so my Love's doth gleam;
And this gentle hand of mine
Gave a heart—thus did not thine.

Ah! Dan Chaucer!—art thou he,
Morning star of minstrelsy?
Eldest of the English choir,
Highest hill—touched first with fire.
Pass! no bow of mine is bent
At the heart where I have leant,
And thy dream of Marguerite
Was a vision of my Sweet.

Next to thee what champions come?
There be valorous poets some—
Other some whose steel I scorn
In unknightly hands yborne;
At the last a Minstrel proud
Rideth high amid the crowd,
Knight of Lady Una he,
And I do him courtesy;
Yet though “whiter than the snow”
Gleamed that noble Dame, I trow,
White as snow, and therewith warm,
Is my Lady's loving arm;
And not golden Oriana,
Nor maid Amoret's high manner,
Waved a hand as white and fine
As the hand of Katharine.
Com'st thou, Tasso, with thy crew,
Eastern-aired Armida too?
Oh! a lustrous lady she,
“Beautiful, exceedingly;”
But her Asian soul I doubt,
Looking from those large eyes out;
And her white wrist plays a part,
Beating not as beats her heart.
Hence, Enchantress! hence, too, thou
Mistress of the southern brow;
Though thou be'st Boccaccio's best,
“Bocca bacciata” hath no zest!
After thee there floats another
Like as sister of one mother,
Ariosto's Angelique,—
Hide her hand, and hide her cheek!
Let a nobler Dame have life
Led by nobler knight to strife—
High born, great, and graceful too,
All thy loving songs are true;
Swear, Lord Surrey, stoutly swear,
Was never woman half so fair!
And I will swear that Geraldine
Had no such hand as Katharine.

Nay! high poets, let it be
Thine to thee, and mine to me;
For I see th' accepted King
Of all earthly minstrelling
Crowned with homely Avon lilies,
As his regal way and will is.
Mighty Master! let me speak:
Though Queen Cleopatra's cheek
Shamed the rosy lotus-dyes,
And her hand in Antony's
Whiter than dove's milky wing
Lay a plaything for a King;
Yet, an thou shalt pardon yield,
Thus I leave the foughten field;
All as fair and yet more true
Than was known to one but you,
Is that fair frank hand of mine
That gave to me Katharine.