O Singer of the fold and byre!
Great Master of the Rustic Lyre,
Whom all our fresh-voiced poet-choir
Now chant amain:
When triolet and rondeau tire,
Hear this my strain!
My strain — at least it is sincere.
Not mine the art to cloy the ear
With Gallic folly's flimsy gear;
My tribute spurns
Aught save this down-right verse, so dear
To Robbie Burns.
Nor will I sing, — as others please, —
Of pipes and flocks, of wolds and leas,
Of vine-clad heights and smiling seas
And fragrant thyme,
Of nymph or swain or gods or bees
Or golden prime.
All these I know: why should I not?
I too have thumbed Liddell and Scott
For Doric forms that I'd forgot
(Or never known);
I too, when Rumpel skipped a spot,
Have turned to Bohn .
I know the blue Sicilian brine,
The olive groves and oak and pine,
The stream, the herdsman, and the wine,
The echoing height, —
All, all are in your song divine,
The world's delight.
But you would swear he loves you more
Who roves where Norland waters roar,
Who watches while the mists up-soar
Above the peak, —
Than who on dusty volumes pore
Of half-guessed Greek.
For you I'd sing our woodland ways,
Our rugged hills soft-veiled in haze,
The ferny footpath through the maze
Of leafless trees;
Of wandering through the autumn days;
The cooling breeze.
I'd tell how Storm King's plumy crest
Frowns high against the glowing west;
How o'er the river's lordly breast
Drift silent by
The pale cloud-shadow fleets, or rest
When breezes die.
And see! what tender glory fills
Yon azure coronet of hills!
With what a wistful rapture thrills
The brooding heart!
You, — you would know how joy distils
In tears that smart.
Ah me! how easier far to swell
Your fame by modish villanelle,
As others use, — than once to tell
The secret strain
That wakes within. . . . But you know well; —
Bid me refrain.
You know; but never would you prate
Of longings inarticulate.
Though pure your art, and wins from Fate
No niggard dole,
Not all your song, however great,
Has voiced your soul.
Ever the brooding heart is stirred
By dreams that mock the bungling word;
Our visions linger dim and blurred,
Their glory fled;
The sweetest music dies unheard,
Its joy unsaid.
Then wheresoe'er your journey lies,
Under what blue or lowering skies,
In sullen shades, or paradise
Mid asphodel:
Maker of sweetest melodies,
Hail and farewell!
Great Master of the Rustic Lyre,
Whom all our fresh-voiced poet-choir
Now chant amain:
When triolet and rondeau tire,
Hear this my strain!
My strain — at least it is sincere.
Not mine the art to cloy the ear
With Gallic folly's flimsy gear;
My tribute spurns
Aught save this down-right verse, so dear
To Robbie Burns.
Nor will I sing, — as others please, —
Of pipes and flocks, of wolds and leas,
Of vine-clad heights and smiling seas
And fragrant thyme,
Of nymph or swain or gods or bees
Or golden prime.
All these I know: why should I not?
I too have thumbed Liddell and Scott
For Doric forms that I'd forgot
(Or never known);
I too, when Rumpel skipped a spot,
Have turned to Bohn .
I know the blue Sicilian brine,
The olive groves and oak and pine,
The stream, the herdsman, and the wine,
The echoing height, —
All, all are in your song divine,
The world's delight.
But you would swear he loves you more
Who roves where Norland waters roar,
Who watches while the mists up-soar
Above the peak, —
Than who on dusty volumes pore
Of half-guessed Greek.
For you I'd sing our woodland ways,
Our rugged hills soft-veiled in haze,
The ferny footpath through the maze
Of leafless trees;
Of wandering through the autumn days;
The cooling breeze.
I'd tell how Storm King's plumy crest
Frowns high against the glowing west;
How o'er the river's lordly breast
Drift silent by
The pale cloud-shadow fleets, or rest
When breezes die.
And see! what tender glory fills
Yon azure coronet of hills!
With what a wistful rapture thrills
The brooding heart!
You, — you would know how joy distils
In tears that smart.
Ah me! how easier far to swell
Your fame by modish villanelle,
As others use, — than once to tell
The secret strain
That wakes within. . . . But you know well; —
Bid me refrain.
You know; but never would you prate
Of longings inarticulate.
Though pure your art, and wins from Fate
No niggard dole,
Not all your song, however great,
Has voiced your soul.
Ever the brooding heart is stirred
By dreams that mock the bungling word;
Our visions linger dim and blurred,
Their glory fled;
The sweetest music dies unheard,
Its joy unsaid.
Then wheresoe'er your journey lies,
Under what blue or lowering skies,
In sullen shades, or paradise
Mid asphodel:
Maker of sweetest melodies,
Hail and farewell!