Classic Poem

Never till now — never till now, O, Queen
And Wonder of the enchanted world of sound!
Never till now was such bright creature seen,
Startling to transport all the regions round!
Whence com'st thou — with those eyes and that fine mien,
Thou sweet, sweet singer? — Like an angel found
Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled)
A star 'mongst clouds, — a spirit 'midst the dead.

Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings
Perpetual sweetness near, — divine despair!
Thou speak'st, — and Music, with her thousand strings,
Gives golden answers from the haunted air!
Thou mov'st — and round thee Grace her beauty flings!
Thou look'st — and Love is born! O, songstress rare!
Lives there on earth a power like that which lies
In those resistless tones, in those dark eyes?

Oh, I have lived — how long! — with one deep treasure,
One fountain of delight unlocked, unknown;
But thou , the prophetess of my new pleasure,
Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone:
And now outgushes, without stint or measure,
The endless rapture, — and in places lone
I shout it to the stars and winds that flee,
And then I think on all I owe to thee!

I see thee at all hours; beneath all skies;
In every shape thou tak'st, or passionate path:
Now art thou like some winged thing that cries
Over a city flaming fast to death:
Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies:
Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath:
All things thou art by turns, — from wrath to love;
From the queen eagle to the vestal dove!

Horror is stern and strong, and Death (unmasked
In slow pale silence, or 'mid brief eclipse);
But what are they to thy sweet strength, when tasked
To its height — with all the God upon thy lips?
Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked
By one who in the book of darkness dips,
Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit
Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit.

Would I could crown thee as a king can crown!
Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame,
Whose echoes shall all vulgarer triumphs drown: —
Whose light shall darken every meaner name?
The gallant courts thee for his own renown;
Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game:
The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse;
And I — alas! — I can but bring my verse!