TO THE AUTHOR OF “MARY BARTON.”
A few have borne me honour in my day,
Whether for thinking as themselves have thought
Or for what else I know not nor inquire.
Among, them some there are whose name will live
Not in the memories but the hearts of men,
Because those hearts they comforted and cheer’d,
And, where they saw God’s images cast down,
Lifted them up again, and blew the dust
From the worn feature and disfigured limb.
Such thou art, pure and mighty! such art thou,
Paraclete of the Bartons! Verse is mute
Or husky in this wintry eve of time,
And they who fain would sing can only cough:
And yet we praise them. Some more strong have left
The narrow field of well-trim’d poetry
For fresher air and wider exercise;
And they do wisely: I might do the same
If strength could gird and youth could garland me.
Imagination flaps her purple wing
Above the ancient laurels, and beyond;
Aye, there are harps that never rang aloft
Olympic deeds or Isthmian; there are hands
Strong even as those that rein’d the fiery steeds
Of proud Achilles on the Dardan plain;
There are clear eyes, eyes clear as those that pierced
Thro’ Paradise and Hell and all between.
The human heart holds more within its cell
Than universal Nature holds without.
This thou hast shown me, standing up erect
While I sat gazing, deep in reverent awe,
Where Avon’s Genius and where Arno’s meet;
And thou hast taught me at the fount of Truth,
That none confer God’s blessing but the poor,
None but the heavy-laden reach His throne.