Classic Poem

It is not true! — " words are not air."
That pass and leave no trace behind
Words are the souls of things that were
Works of the mightiest of Mankind.

Of life and empire, sword and crown
Historians, bards, and fame bereft,
Of Egypt's monarch's high renown
What but a hieroglyph is left?

Where now were Hector's deeds of arms
Ulysses craft — Achilles' ire —
Where lovely Helen's fatal charms,
But for the breath of Homer's lyre?

Pious Aeneas, where wert thou
With all thy toils by land and wave,
But for the wreath that crowns thy brow
Which Virgil's verse immortal gave?

Where, where were each Ausonian chief
Whose tones through Dante's trumpet tell
Their name and story, bold and brief,
To Purgatory, Heaven and Hell?

Geoffry the brave — the wise — the just —
With all his Holy Wars might rot
The Knight in dust, his sword in rust
If Tasso had not changed his lot.

A timely or untimely word
Decides the fate of men and things
On tempests borne — in thunders heard —
The Oracle of Realms and Kings!

" Avoid delays!" — " The Die is Cast!"
From Curio's and from Caesar's tongue
As fell each phrase, a simoom's blast
Its blight o'er Roman freedom flung.

When Mirabeau's tremendous bolt
" Go slave, and tell thy master! " fell,
In tones that startled knave and dolt,
What millions might have heard their knell?

And He — the Man of Fate — the Star —
Lord of the Iron Soul and Crown,
Was not his word once peace or war
Like Jove's or Destiny's his frown?

A word then shapes the fate of Man
Makes or unmakes the great — the wise —
Even with a Word the world began
And at a word the dead shall rise!

Tell me not then, that " Words are air,"
Of all things mortal they can claim
The highest and the noblest share,
The share of Heaven from whence they came.

For words are not in sounds alone
Or letters framed by Hermes' art
Nature has voices of her own
Their tongue the Sea — the Stars — the Heart.

And to the souls of those whose soul
The Universe's spirit hears
There is a language in the whole
Beyond the Music of the Spheres.

And he who holds its key can read
Far into the abyss of Time
Beyond the reach of craft or creed
To monsters of the Earth's first slime.

And higher than the realms of day,
To stars with systems still unknown,
Track to lone worlds, each wandering ray,
Long ages ere it reached our own.

Aye, and record for humbler skill
The triumph, and the fact attained,
That deeper depths — heights higher still,
Truth upon truth, shall yet be gained.

Then do not say that " Words are air,"
Spirits they are, of mortal birth,
Wing'd messengers of Man that bear
To God the voices of the Earth!

And who can say that even at length
Mankind — the living and the dead —
The Heart — the Soul — their weakness — strength —
Hopes fears and mysteries may be read?

What I of others, on such page,
Or they of me, might now be told
'Twere vain to ask — another age
Must pass, before such leaves unfold.

Yet ere I die — unseen — unheard,
Fain would I, one dark leaf explore,
Construe one line — translate one word —
Or guess it's meaning, if no more.

And for such knowledge, good or ill,
I fear me much, were Eden mine,
Spite of the past — the Serpent's skill
Its joys might tempt me to resign.

Then tell me not that words are air
Words are the Sons of Heaven that sought
To light in Earthly bosoms fair
The deathless flame of Heavenly Thought!