Classic Poem

Thou cravest truth?
A goodly quest; but truth is not a gift
From man to man imparted, as the rich
Give their estates to next of kin; my wish,
However worthy, is but impotent;
I only point the pathway for thy feet.

That which appeals to thee, go forth and live.
When thou hast made truth valid by thy deed,
'Tis thine, but it is nothing to thee else.
The loom of time moves ceaselessly, and thou
With nimble shuttle—brain and heart and will,
Dost weave for thee the garment of thy mind
Whose length and depth and breadth thy stature is.
What fabric thou dost choose, thy life shall wear,
And, clad therein, confront the blaze of day,
The bar of thine own soul, the eyes of God.
When thou the web of life hast fully planned,
Noble or base, it still is what thou art;
Whate'er thou willest, that thy life shall be.

Let not the fickle spirit of the times
Warp the true judgments of experience;
And suffer not the noises of the day
To drown the mandate of thine own ideal.
Lest time-born satisfactions, too much craved
And hardly won, rob thee of sovereignty.
And yet, taste thou life's fruit and tasting find
The root of wisdom and the fount of strength;
In faith inspired of deed, all doubt shall die.
With iron key of stern analysis,
Go, try the door of life's realities,
Which passing through, thy soul shall then be free.
Of pleasure's dalliance bereft, whine not,
But gird thy soul and cut adrift from death.
Rage not but run if thou would'st win the race.

Know thou thyself, weaver of destiny;
A ruddy spark that stirs the wick to flame;
A light that kills the dark; a cooling breeze
That, blowing softly on time's fevered cheek,
Comforts the heart as with Æolian song;
A ripple of that sea whose billow-heave
Creates the mountain and reshapes the world;
A little stream that grows to boundlessness
And swells to music of the Heart of God;
A drift of stars like snowflakes moving down
The soundless arch of night. Nay more, a thought
So clear, its image grows in magnitude
And power and speaks new worlds to being; grows
Till art is beauty and all life is song.

To know thyself aright is thus thyself
To know. The way leads through the stressful flood
And winds up wearily o'er hills of toil
Where peak on peak to higher life ascends
On summits white and clear. Faint not, be strong;
Beyond the mountain-line of faith lies heaven.
With great-souled deed program the years;
Beggar thy baser being till it die,
Then rise, soul-sinewed, lord of circumstance,
And shape the years to universal good.

Thy wit,
Herr Faust, will guess aright the cause for which
I work in secrecy. The populace
Pronounce it devil's work; the more devout
Acclaim the wonder as divinely wrought;
But since a monetary furtherance
Is sought, we'll sift this business now in that
Behoof; I, with the hope that gold may pour
From thy too bulging purse to prop and urge
The enterprise; thou, that a golden stream
May flow from this new fountain.

List! Mein Herr.
I'll print an hundred pages like to this—
Observe it hath just six-and-thirty lines
Of Holy Scripture—while thy scrivener
Shall write but one. My page, its thought shall show
More vivid and with fairer face, yet vie
In teeming multiplicity with Eve's
Prolific motherhood; for while my forms
Dismiss the calamus and spurn the scribe's
Slow pace, they print with artistry that shames
The stylus. Be my work one-tenth the price
And better done—thou know'st it is, full well—
And thou dost take effective interest here,
Thy wealth shall rise to opulence, and all
The world shall be instructed in the Word.
If thine assistant purse avail mine art,
Then shalt thou know forthwith each step by which
This thing so strange is wrought. Hast thou meanwhile
Considered well the terms on which we meet? . . . .
Aye? Good! Then, since we are agreed, we'll sign
And seal the instrument, which, as thou seest,
Is couched in beauty such as never scribe
Could have accomplishèd. . . . . .

That being done,
Hear me while I the secret tell of how
I worked this wonder. First I graved in wood,
And afterwards in lead, such forms as this,
Which is the letter “A.”—Thine eye is first,
After mine own, to see that leaden face.—
But such a task was slow and wearisome.
That I might quite escape its tedium,
I made a flux to mould my formes in sand,
Then deftly smoothed these counterparts of thought,
Which, when composed to words and sentences
And lockt in formes, were thus made permanent
As there was need.

Now follow me within . . . .
Upon this tablet is the final forme
From which that page of six-and-thirty lines
Which thou hast seen was made. But there was need,
Before the full result was yet attained,
Of ink so siccative and even-laid
Upon these leaden faces, that the print
Should stand out fair and clear. This I contrived;
And last of all, I made this press to hold
The inkèd forme and print it quicklier
Upon the page. I'll fix it now and make
In one brief moment what thy swiftest scribe
Had taken hours to achieve. . . . .

Ach! Lieber Herr,
Well mayst thou gasp. The future waits in awe;
The past, subservient. All the sages pour
Their wisdom at our feet, beseeching us
To give them immortality and thou
Dost hold with me the nexus of the years
'Twixt ancient and to come. By this our craft
We two shall give our age the noblest words
Of Aristotle and Pythagoras,
Of Plato, Socrates, and those stern seers
Who spake Jehovah's word to Israel.
Was ever such a gift in mortal hand?
And shall it not be chiefest of our care
To keep this charge and serve humanity
In such a high vocation?

Ah, I see
A wearied patience sits upon thy mien.
Thy goldsmith's heart doth more appraise the hope
Of large enrichment of its treasury.
In this we are not one; yet I will keep
Our pact, and life's high purpose
Shall not fail.