An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash! I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, Has blessed me wi' a random shot BURNS. THE MUSE. THE Muse doth tell me where to bor row 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, And also dumbé as a stone, 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, though few, In Nature's presence: thence may I select Sorrow that is delight, not sorrow, but 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 oracu lar, Amid the vast creation; why ordained 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 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 ascent Of nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding smile of heaven? else wherefore burns, In mortal bosoms, this unquenched hope That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession? wherefore darts the mind, With such resistless ardor to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free, Spurning the gross control of wilful might; Proud of the strong contention of her toils; Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns To heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame? Who that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye Shoots round the wide horizon to survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his broad tide Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand,-will turn his gaze 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 |