THE vulture like -- Who, on heavy clouds of morning With quiet pinion poising, Keeps watch for prey -- Hover, my song! For a God hath Unto each his path Fixed beforehand, Which the fortunate Tread till the happy Goal is reached: But he, the wretched, Whose heart is pinched with pain, He struggles vainly Against the restrictions Of Fate's thread of iron Which the shears still unwelcome But once shall slit. In dusk of thickets Crowd the rough-coated deer, And with the sparrows Have the rich already Buried themselves in muck and mire. Easy the chariot to follow Driven by Fortune's hand, Easy as unto the troop Following the Prince's entry Is the convenient highway. But, who fares on by-paths? In the copse he loses his way, After him rustle The branches together, The grass springs up again, The wilderness hides him. Ah, his pangs who shall solace -- His, whose balm becomes poison? Who but hate of man Drank from very abundance of love! First despised, and now the despiser, Thus in secret he His own worth consumes In unsatisfying self-love. Is there in Thy psalter, Father of Love, but a tone Unto his ear accessible, Then refresh Thou his heart, To his clouded sight reveal Where are the thousand fountains Near to the thirsty one In the Desert. Thou, the Creator of joys, Giving the fullest cup to each, Favor the sons of the chase, Tracking signs of their game With reckless ardor of youth, Murderous, joyous, Late avengers of losses, Which the peasant so vainly Fought for years with his bludgeon, But the Solitary fold In clouds that are golder! Entwine with winter-green, Till the rose again is in blossom, The moistened tresses, O Love, of thy Poet! With thy glimmering flambeau Lightest thou him Through the waters by night, Over fathomless courses On desolate lowlands; With the thousand hues of the morning Mak'st thou his heart glad; With the sting of the storm Bear'st thou him high aloft: Winter-torrents plunge from the granite, In psalms he singeth, An altar of gratitude sweet Is for him the perilous summit's Snow-enshrouded forehead, Which with circling phantoms Crowned the faith of the races. Thou with inscrutable bosom standest Mysterious in revelation Above the astonished world, From clouds down-looking On all its kingdoms and splendid shows Which thou from the veins dost water Of brothers beside thee | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOHENGRIN; PROEM by EMMA LAZARUS DOMESDAY BOOK: LOVERIDGE CHASE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS COMMEMORATION ODE READ AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL TO GIOVANNI DA PISTOIA ON THE PAINTING OF THE SISTINE CHAPEL, 1509 by MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI AT BETHLEHEM: 1. THE CHILD by JOHN BANISTER TABB THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 1 by MARK AKENSIDE |