XII. Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion, And our Pindar's shining goals!— These were cup-bearers undying, Of the wine that's meant for souls. XIII. And my Plato, the divine one, XIV. Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him And your Basil, you upraised him XV. And we both praised your Synesius Though the Church was scarce propitious And we both praised Nazianzen For the fervid heart and speech : Do XVI. you mind that deed of Atè Which you bound me to so fast,Reading 'De Virginitate,' From the first line to the last? How I said at ending, solemn As I turned and looked at you, That St. Simeon on the column Had had somewhat less to do? XVII. For we sometimes gently wrangled, Since our thoughts were disentangled Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons XVIII. For the rest a mystic moaning, XIX. And Medea we saw burning While the cloud came on to breakWhile the cloud came on slow, slower, Till he stood discrowned, resigned!But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him BLIND. XX. Ah, my gossip! you were older, And I turned from hill and lea XXI. Now Christ bless you with the one light All your kindness, friend of mine, XXII. So, to come back to the drinking And whoever be the speaker, None can murmur with a sigh That, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly. A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 'Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath.' POEMS ON MAN, BY CORNELIUS MATHEWS.* I. WE are borne into life-it is sweet, it is strange. Which smiles with a change; But we doubt not of changes, we know not of spaces, The Heavens seem as near as our own mother's face is, And we think we could touch all the stars that we see ; And the milk of our mother is white on our mouth; And, with small childish hands, we are turning around . The apple of Life which another has found; It is warm with our touch, not with sun of the south, Thou art sweet, thou art strange evermore ! * A small volume, by an American poet-as remarkable in thought and manner for a vital sinewy vigour, as the right arm of Pathfinder. 1844. |