TO ROBERT EYRES LANDOR.
ON HIS “FAWN” AND ON “ARETHUSA”.
Bare, since the sons of Leda, rare a twain,
Born of one mother, which hath reacht the goal
Of Immortality: the stem is rare
Which ripens close together two rich fruits.
Two Scipios were “the thunderbolts of war,”.
And blasted what they fell upon: the arm
Of Napier, far more glorious, bent each horn
Of Indus to his yokemate Ganges, hail’d
For higher victory, hail’d for rescuing
A hundred nations from barbaric sway.
The light of Scipio was outshone by him
He vanquisht, by the Julian star eclipst,
And Scipio had no brother who could lift
The scroll of Mars above the reach of Time.
We too, alike in studies, we have toil’d,
In calmer fields and healthier exercise, —
Not without Honour: Honour may defer
His hour of audience, but he comes at last.
Behold! there issue from one house two chiefs
Beyond all contest; one in shafts of wit
Hurl’d o’er the minster to the Atlantic strand,
The other proudly unapproachable
Striking a rock whence gush the founts of song:
Dull sands lie flat and dwarf shrubs writhe around.
Twice nine the centuries since the Latian Muse
Wail’d on the frozen Danube for her son
Exiled, her glory to revive no more
Until that destined period was fulfil’d.
Scaring the wrens at Cam’s recumbent side,
Never by Tiber’s one of statelier step
Or loftier mien or deeper tone than he
Whom, bold in youth, I dared to emulate,
Nor stoopt my crest to peck light grain among
The cackling poultry of the homestead yard.
Thine is the care to keep our native springs
Pure of pollution, clear of weeds; but thine
Are also graver cares, with fortune blest
Not above competence, with duties charged
Which with more zeal and prudence none perform.
There are who guide the erring, tend the sick,
Nor frown the starving from a half-closed door,
But none beside my brother, none beside,
In stall thick-litter d or on mitred throne,
Gives the more needy all the Church gives him.
Unaided, tho’ years press and health declines,
By aught of clerical or human aid,
Thou servest God, and God’s poor guests, alone.
Enough were this to damn thee here below,
But not enough to drive those forms away
Which to pure votary mom and eve descend,
The Muse, the Grace, the Nymph of stream and grove;
But not enough to make the sun less warm
On thy smooth walks and pleasant glades close mown,
Or lamplight duller on thy pictured walls.
Thy Fancy rests upon deep-bosomed Truth,
And wakes to Harmony; no word is tost
To catch the passing wind like unmade hay.
Few can see this, whirl’d in the dust around,
And some who can would rather see awry.
If such could add to their own fame the fame
Their hands detract from others, then indeed
The act, howbeit felonious, were less vile;
They strip the wealthy, but they clothe the poor.
Aside thy Fawn expect some envious stab,
Some latent arrow from obscure defile;
Aside thy Arethusa never hope
Untroubled rest; men will look up and see
What hurts their eyes in the strong beams above,
And shining points will bring fierce lightnings down
Upon thy head, and mine by birth so near.
Heedless of brawlers in the pit beneath,
To whosoe’er enacts the nobler part,
Known or unknown, or friendly or averse,
I will throw crowns, and throw unsparingly;
Nor are these crowns too light to fly direct,
Nor fall they short, far as the scope may be.
Better I deem it that my grain of myrrh
Bum for the living than embalm the dead.
Take my fraternal offering, not composed
Of ditch-side flowers, the watery-stalkt and rank,
Such as our markets smell of, all day long,
And roister ditty-roaring rustics wear;
But fresh, full, shapely, sprinkled with that lymph
Which from Peneios on the olive-wreath
Shook at loud plaudits under Zeus high-throned.