IRENE. NOT this way will you set your name A star among the stars. POET. What way? IRENE. You praise when you should blame The barbarism of wars. A juster epoch has begun. POET. Yet tho' this cheek be gray, And that bright hair the modern sun, Those eyes the blue to-day, You wrong me, passionate little friend. I would that wars should cease, I would the globe from end to end Might sow and reap in peace, And some new Spirit o'erbear the old, Or Trade re-frain the Powers From war with kindly links of gold, Or Love with wreaths of flowers. Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all My friends and brother souls, With all the peoples, great and small, That wheel between the poles. But since our mortal shadow, Ill, To waste this earth began -- Perchance from some abuse of Will In worlds before the man Involving ours -- he needs must fight To make true peace his own, He needs must combat might with might, Or Might would rule alone; And who loves war for war's own sake Is fool, or crazed, or worse; But let the patriot-soldier take His meed of fame in verse; Nay -- tho' that realm were in the wrong For which her warriors bleed, It still were right to crown with song The warrior's noble deed -- A crown the Singer hopes may last, For so the deed endures; But Song will vanish in the Vast; And that large phrase of yours 'A star among the stars,' my dear, Is girlish talk at best; For dare we dally with the sphere As he did half in jest, Old Horace? 'I will strike,' said he, 'The stars with head sublime,' But scarce could see, as now we see, The man in space and time, So drew perchance a happier lot Than ours, who rhyme to-day. The fires that arch this dusky dot -- Yon myriad-worlded way -- The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze, World-isles in lonely skies, Whole heavens within themselves, amaze Our brief humanities. And so does Earth; for Homer's fame, Tho' carved in harder stone -- The falling drop will make his name As mortal as my own. IRENE. No! POET. Let it live then -- ay, till when? Earth passes, all is lost In what they prophesy, our wise men, Sun-flame or sunless frost, And deed and song alike are swept Away, and all in vain As far as man can see, except The man himself remain; And tho', in this lean age forlorn, Too many a voice may cry That man can have no after-morn, Not yet of those am I. The man remains, and whatsoe'er He wrought of good or brave Will mould him thro' the cycle-year That dawns behind the grave. And here the Singer for his art Not all in vain may plead 'The song that nerves a nation's heart Is in itself a deed.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARCO BOZZARIS by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK UPON HIS SPANIEL [SPANIELL] TRACIE by ROBERT HERRICK MOTHER O' MINE by RUDYARD KIPLING THE WILD DUCK'S NEST by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE STORM by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE MYRTILLA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |