POEMS OF OCCASION
Though but a leaf is stranded from the brine;
His the fine spirit which is so true a lover
Of sovran Art, that all the becks of life
Allure it not until the work be wrought.
Nay, though the shout and smoke of combat rose,
He, through the changeful strife,
Eternal loveliness more closely sought,
And Beauty's changeless law and sure repose.
Was it not well that one—
One, if no more—should meditate aloof,
Though not for naught the time's heroic quarrel,
From what men rush to do and what is done.
He little knew to join the web and woof
Whereof slow Progress weaves her rich apparel,
But toward the Past half longing turned his head.
His deft hand dallied with its common share
Of human toil, nor sought new loads to lift
But held itself, instead,
All consecrate to uses that make fair,
By right divine of his mysterious gift.
How should the world discern
The artist's self, save through the fine creation
Of his rare moment? How, but from his song,
The unfettered spirit of the minstrel learn?
Yet on this one the stars had set the station
Which to the chief romancer should belong:
Child of the Beautiful! whose regnant brow
She made her canopy, and from his eyes
Looked outward with a steadfast purple gleam.
Who saw him marvelled how
The soul of that impassioned ray could lie
So calm beyond,—unspoken all its dream.
What sibyl to him bore
The secret oracles that move and haunt?
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