A poet from enchanted lyre
Struck notes of mildest melody;
He sang… but cold and all unmoved,
The mob unconsecrated stood,
And, gaping, listened to his song.
Amongst themselves the mob discussed:
“Why sing with voice so musical?
The ear is tickled, but in vain,
What is the goal he leads us to?
Why this thrumming? What would he teach?
Our hearts why stir, our souls torment,
Like one possessed with unknown tongue?
His song is free as lawless winds,
And, like the winds, can bear no fruit:
What good or profit can it bring?
POET .
Silence! mob of senseless grumblers,
Day-labourers, base slaves of slaves,
I loathe your shallow murmurs vile.
Ye worms of earth, no sons of heaven,
Your God is profit:… by the pound
You weigh Apollo Belvedere:
The iron pot is dearer held,
Since it serves well to cook your food.
THE UNWASHED
Nay, if thou be elect of God,
Thy gift, dear messenger divine,
Use kindly for our good and weal;
Correct and guide thy brethren's hearts.
We are, thou sayst, small-souled in aim,
Wicked, shameless, and ungrateful;
Our hearts are cold and dead to love,
Calumniators, slaves, and fools;
Each vice finds nest within our souls.
But thou art lover of thy kind,
And lessons bold in truth canst give;
And we will listen to thy words.
POET .
Away! Begone! What common tie
Can poet bind to such as you?
Be boldly hard in vice as rock;
Nor song, nor lyre can give you life,
In soul as senseless as the tomb;
For centuries you have well reaped,
And of your follies won the prize,
The whip, the prison, and the axe.
Begone, dull slaves of ease and gain!
Men in your city's noisy streets
The rubbish sweep… a useful work!
But think ye that the prophet-priests,
Forgetful of their calling high,
Will quit the altar-sacrifice,
And meekly take in hands your brooms?
To take part in the world's turmoil,
In sordid gain, in vulgar strife,
We are not born, but have received
The inspired gift of sweetest song.
Struck notes of mildest melody;
He sang… but cold and all unmoved,
The mob unconsecrated stood,
And, gaping, listened to his song.
Amongst themselves the mob discussed:
“Why sing with voice so musical?
The ear is tickled, but in vain,
What is the goal he leads us to?
Why this thrumming? What would he teach?
Our hearts why stir, our souls torment,
Like one possessed with unknown tongue?
His song is free as lawless winds,
And, like the winds, can bear no fruit:
What good or profit can it bring?
POET .
Silence! mob of senseless grumblers,
Day-labourers, base slaves of slaves,
I loathe your shallow murmurs vile.
Ye worms of earth, no sons of heaven,
Your God is profit:… by the pound
You weigh Apollo Belvedere:
The iron pot is dearer held,
Since it serves well to cook your food.
THE UNWASHED
Nay, if thou be elect of God,
Thy gift, dear messenger divine,
Use kindly for our good and weal;
Correct and guide thy brethren's hearts.
We are, thou sayst, small-souled in aim,
Wicked, shameless, and ungrateful;
Our hearts are cold and dead to love,
Calumniators, slaves, and fools;
Each vice finds nest within our souls.
But thou art lover of thy kind,
And lessons bold in truth canst give;
And we will listen to thy words.
POET .
Away! Begone! What common tie
Can poet bind to such as you?
Be boldly hard in vice as rock;
Nor song, nor lyre can give you life,
In soul as senseless as the tomb;
For centuries you have well reaped,
And of your follies won the prize,
The whip, the prison, and the axe.
Begone, dull slaves of ease and gain!
Men in your city's noisy streets
The rubbish sweep… a useful work!
But think ye that the prophet-priests,
Forgetful of their calling high,
Will quit the altar-sacrifice,
And meekly take in hands your brooms?
To take part in the world's turmoil,
In sordid gain, in vulgar strife,
We are not born, but have received
The inspired gift of sweetest song.