XIII.

TO LAMARTINE, PRESIDENT OF FRANCE.

History lies wide open: the first page
Of very chapter blood illuminates,
And ductile gold embosses, dense and bright.
Not children only, but grave men admire
The gaudy grand distortions; hippogryphs,
Unicorns, dragons, infant heads enlarged
To size gigantic, seraph visages,
And scaly serpents trailing underneath.
I trill no cymbal, and I shake no bells
To thee, pacific ruler! On the plains
Be thou establisht, where power rests secure,
Unshaken by the tempests: there my muse
Shall find and cheer thee when the day is o’er,
And other notes are silent all around.
’Twas not unseemly in the bravest bard
From Paradise and angels to descend,
And crown his country’s saviour with a wreath
Above the regal: few his words, but strong,
And sounding through all ages and all climes.
He caught the sonnet from the dainty hand
Of Love, who cried to lose it; and he gave
The notes to Glory. Darwen and Dunbar
Heard him; Sabrina, whom in youth he wooed,
Croucht in the sedges at the clang of war,
Until he pointed out from Worcester walls
England’s avenger awfully sedate.
In our dull misty day what breast respires
The poetry that warms and strengthens man
To glorious deeds, and makes his coronet
Outlive the festival, nor droop at last?
Alas! alas! the food of nightingales
Is foul; and plumeless bipeds who sing best
Desert the woods for cattle-trodden roads,
And plunge the beak, hungry and athirst, in mire.
Prince! above princes! may thy deeds create
A better race! meanwhile from peaceful shores
Hear, without listening long (for grayer cares
Surround and press thee), hear with brow benign
A voice that cheers thee with no vulgar shout,
No hireling impulse, on thy starry way.