A finite maker in our humble sphere,
The past’s restorer and the future’s seer
Is the born poet, consecrate partaker
In the high service of the Infinite Maker.
His true commission is inscribed within;
And a low voice, heard not through passion’s din,
Whispers the word he shall not dare withhold
For fame’s allurement or for tempting gold.
The reverent liege of everlasting beauty,
He lives for no reward apart from duty,
Knowing that what is fleet is fairest things
Is but the ripple of perennial springs,
His joy is full, and full his notes of cheer
Through all the shifting glories of the year;
Nor less trustful sympathies that span
The moods that move the struggling heart of man.
In truth’s battalions the anointed bard,
His fiery lays lead valor’s dauntless guard;
The tenderest voice of voiceless love, his art
Attends the palaces of the common heart;
And even better than the sore distressed
Utters the pangs that wring the troubled breast,
Breathing their mournful notes in numbers smooth
On the painted ear, to heal the while they soothe.
What the brooks whisper in their gargled speech,
And what ripples on the shelving beach,
What mean the thousand odors of the May,
And what the bird-songs that announce the day,
His voice, as musical and free, can tell,
And read great Nature’s sphinx-enigma well.
But, more and deeper, from his chords should roll
The vocal hardness of the aspiring soul,
Lifting the yearning thought on wings of fire
To regions purer, aims forever higher.
Where man is trampled by the proud and strong,
The poet’s heart should lighten thorough his song;
While o’er Bastiles that darken sun and star
His harp-strings vibrate with a thunder-jar,
Pouring the strain of freedom’s “Onward!” say
Along her march to bloodless victory,
And from the house of bondage lead the way,
Bannered with fire by night and cloud by day.
His warrior words shall smite the iron mail
Of armed oppression like the tempest’s flail
Threshing the mountains. In his song shall ring
The exhilarant bird-notes of a new life-spring.
Prophet of hope, his sacred mission here
Is not to deepen sorrow, but to cheer.
He shall not feed the mourning soul on glooms
Shaping a darkness deeper than the tomb’s,
Nor summon round the spectre Death a crowd
Of dismal doubts and terrors, mute or loud.
He wrongs his chrism who joins the wail of grief
And loads his song with honeyed unbelief.
The poet breathes a more melodious breath,
To chant the anthems of sublimer faith;
His eye is keener, that it might discern
The sky-broad curves of settling life’s return;
His ear is strong with finer nerves to hear
Hope’s faintest account in the sobs of fear.
The world of doubt and darkness waits the strain
Of golden promise in his grand refrain;
And woe to his crowned soul if it must wait in vain!
The Poet's Mission