Classic Poem

Two Poets live and work at will
In the highlands by the river-sheen:
One hath his harp and domicile
Up on the sun-kindled, wind-kissed hill;
And one, his shrine somewhere in the still,
Divinely tenanted secrecy of the inviolable ravine.

He, the Young Poet, who exults
Up on the hill-top, all alone;
And feels along his veins the pulse
Of Nature stronger than his own;
His subtle thought and sacred chime
Have caught and charmed the ear of Time;
His name and fair-found fellowship
Are honored on the living lip.
But the Old Poet, who hath wreaked
The spirit of his ancient spell
On the rugged granite scarped and peaked,
Down in the shadow of the Dell, —
There is no servitor to show
The pilgrim to his portico.

No voice is ever audible
With " Welcome and thrice welcome, sire! "
However just and laudable
The motive of the visitor;
No jarring of a vexed lyre
With, " Hark ye, sirrah, go thy way! "
To awe an uncouth quisitor
For trespass or for overstay.

But should some churl, eschewed of grace,
Shew there his melancholy face,
And biting his curled lip exclaim:
" Ye gods, why did ye make the place?
An utter waste, — It is a shame! —
A mere chance causey, through and through,
— Could come of nothing but misrule!
Tut, tut, poor rocks, I pity you,
The Master here must be a fool! "
The Rock would answer deep and cool:
" I pity you — I pity you —
The Master here must be a fool. "

But should the heaven-loved Elinor,
Who bideth but a little while
Ere we shall clasp her hand no more,
Kneel down in secret there and pray,
With her last breath and dying smile,
" Dear Spirit, come to me to-day! "
A Voice within, perchance, might say:
" Dear Spirit, come to me to-day. "
And in that Dell there is no tree,
No leaf nor flower, no bird nor bee,
No lifeless, and no living thing,
But feels the fine forefingering
Of his inimitable fantasy;
Is there, no rivulet nor stream,
No earth-born shade nor heaven-born beam,
But hath some slight; especial part
In the romantic work and dream
Of this Old Poet's mind and heart.

The merest animated mite
That revelled in his tiny rings
Ten thousand years ago to-night,
And was so whimsically slight,
He never knew the need of wings;
But rose in ecstasy with light,
And shed his little overplight
Of mortal ashes in one flight;
The busy-footed centipede,
That crept his native leaflet's rim,
Till he wore off from every limb
His birth-woof, with instinctive speed,
And ran regenerate up the reed, —
Had instinct of the Poet's need,
And kept fine harmony with him:
And all, according to their meed,
Are there embalmed, forevermore, amid his cryptographic tomes.