Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE POET, by GEORGE LUNT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE POET, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The poet sits by his own fire-side
Last Line: While all the world's his thankless debtor.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets


THE poet sits by his own fire-side,
Alone and afar from the worldly din,
And choicest guests at his bidding glide
To smile on his gentle welcome in;
Heart-friends they are, and with them oft
He holds some converse sweet and new,
And they reply with accent soft
To all his questions kind and true.

First enters in a palmer-wight,
Much scoffed at on the king's highway,
And marked with stains of many a slight
The outside of his amice gray.
Though deeply versed in varied lore,
Of all true riches holds the key,
Yet few will own a friend so poor
As homely, wise HUMILITY.

The next, one common blush would rise
On good society's whole face,
If she, whose only drapery is
Her own sweet charms, should there take place!
What, all unveiled! 'twere shame to brook,—
Shocking to Age and ill for Youth!
Yet he invites and dares to look
The blushless bard on naked TRUTH!

Modest as Nubia's unclad daughters,
Though close beside her, like a shade,
A fiery gallant, ripe for slaughters,
But best in weeds of peace arrayed;
He, FREEDOM, lord of crag-built places,
And sands, where dusky wanderers roam,
On breezy hills the wild-deer chases,
But makes the poet's heart his home.

And one, more gay than summer fairy,
That trips o'er meads, in moonlit dances,
A shape, whose infinite vagary,
Round heaven and earth each moment glances;
And wet with dew from Nature's bowers,
Her flowing locks like star-beams glisten,
Her robe of azure,—freaked with flowers,—
What bard to FANCY would not listen?

From friends like these forever learning,
The poet's heart is like a river,
Whose generous current, unreturning,
Flows onward to life's sea forever;
With golden music, sweet and earnest,
It mingles with that sullen ocean,
And gives its softest voice or sternest,
To ease the world's pent-up emotion.

Love owes him thus his soft revealings,
And Grief's mute heart by woe were riven,
But he finds words to melt her feelings,
And wafts the soul of Hope to heaven.
And still when Freedom slept or languished,
His cheering strains have broke the fetter,
Yet he, too oft, pines lone and anguished,
While all the world's his thankless debtor.





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