THE Muse doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; ness, In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made; The strange music of the waves Poesy, thou sweet'st content, Though thou be to them a scorn Than I am in love with thee. GEORGE WITHER. THE POET. AND also, beau sire, of other things, anone, And also dumbé as a stone, Thou sittest at another booke, Till fully dazèd is thy looke, And livest thus as an hermite. CHAUCER. PRAYER TO APOLLO. GOD of science and of light, - CHAUCER To men as they are men within themselves. How oft high service is performed within, When all the external man is rude in show: Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, But a mere mountain chapel that protects Its simple worshippers from sun and shower! Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these, If future years mature me for the task, Will I record the praises, making verse Deal boldly with substantial things, -in truth And sanctity of passion speak of these, That justice may be done, obeisance paid Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach, Inspire, through unadulterated ears Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope; my theme No other than the very heart of man, As found among the best of those who live, Not unexalted by religious faith, Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, In Nature's presence: thence may I select Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight, And miserable love that is not pain To hear of, for the glory that redounds Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. Be mine to follow with no timid step Where knowledge leads me; it shall be my pride That I have dared to tread this holy ground, Speaking no dream, but things oracular, Matter not lightly to be heard by those Most active when they are most eloquent, And elevated most when most admired. Men may be found of other mould than these; Who are their own upholders, to themselves Encouragement, and energy, and will; Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words, As native passion dictates. too, Others, There are, among the walks of homely life, Still higher, men for contemplation framed; Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase. Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse. Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power, The thought, the image, and the silent joy: Words are but under-agents in their souls; When they are grasping with their greatest strength They do not breathe among them; this I speak In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts For his own service, knoweth, lov eth us, When we are unregarded by the world." WORDSWORTH. UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON. THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought sur passed; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no fur ther go: To make a third she joined the former two. DRYDEN. Say, why was man so eminently raised Amid the vast creation; why ordamned Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limits of his frame, But that the Omnipotent might send him forth In sight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundless theatre to run The great career of justice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner deeds; To chase each partial purpose from his breast; And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft, Through fields of air pursues the flying storm; Rides on the volleyed lightning through the heavens; Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast, Sweeps the long track of day. Then high she soars The blue profound, and hovering o'er the sun Beholds him pouring the redundant |