Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the abyss to spy. He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah, 'tis heard no more! O Lyre divine! what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run With orient hues, unborrowed of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far-but far above the Great. Thomas Gray [1716–1771] SEAWEED WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks: From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far-off, bright Azore; From Bahama, and the dashing, Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas,— Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, ere long, From each cave and rocky fastness In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted With the golden fruit of Truth; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That for ever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, Household words, no more depart. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807–1882] TO THE MUSES WHETHER on Ida's shady brow, Where the melodious winds have birth; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, How have you left the ancient love The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few. William Blake [1757-1827] "WHITHER IS GONE THE WISDOM AND THE POWER" WHITHER is gone the wisdom and the power In every cell and every blooming bower Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849] THE MUSES Of old the Muses sat on high, And heard and judged the songs of men; "They lightly serve who serve us best, We Muses love a soul at rest, But violence and toil we shun." If men say true, the Muses now Have changed their ancient habitude, So each one with the other vies, Of those who weave romance or song: And yet methinks I hear the hest Come murmuring down from Helicon: THE MOODS (AFTER READING CERTAIN OF THE IRISH POETS) THE Moods have laid their hands across my hair: My heart turns crying from the rose and brook, Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame; Yes, vagrant voices on a darkened plain, And holy things, and outcast things, and things My pity and my joy are grown alike; I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart. Fannie Stearns Davis [18 THE PASSIONATE READER TO HIS POET DOTH it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing |