Hies, ah! from whence, what native ground?
And to what goal, what ending, bound?
"Behold at last the poet's sphere!
But who," I said, "suffices here?
"For, ah! so much he has to do,—
Be painter and musician too!
The aspect of the moment show,
The feeling of the moment know!
The aspect not, I grant, express
Clear as the painter's art can dress;
The feeling not, I grant, explore
So deep as the musician's lore:
But clear as words can make revealing,
And deep as words can follow feeling.
But, ah! then comes his sorest spell
Of toil,—he must life's movement tell!
The thread which binds it all in one,
And not its separate parts alone.
The movement he must tell of life,
Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;
His eye must travel down, at full,
The long, unpausing spectacle;
With faithful, unrelaxing force
Attend it from its primal source,
From change to change and year to year
Attend it of its mid-career,
Attend it to the last repose
And solemn silence of its close.
"The cattle rising from the grass,
His thought must follow where they pass;
The penitent with anguish bowed,
His thought must follow through the crowd.
