Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PROEM DEDICATORY: EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLOUS; TO RICHARD H. STODDARY, by BAYARD TAYLOR


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PROEM DEDICATORY: EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLOUS; TO RICHARD H. STODDARY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: O friend, were you but couched on tmolous'
Last Line: Of the world's tardy praise, shall make them dear.
Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard
Subject(s): Apollo; Earth; Mythology - Classical; Pan (mythology); Sea; Singing & Singers; World; Ocean


I.

O FRIEND, were you but couched on Tmolus' side,
In the warm myrtles, in the golden air
Of the declining day, which half lays bare,
Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide
Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea;
And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail,
And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly
Beneath the Ionian autumn's violet veil; --
Were you but with me, little were the need
Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme,
Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime
And the ripe brain but sheds abortive seed.
But I am solitary, and the curse,
Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth --
The torment and the ecstasy of verse --
Comes up to me from the illustrious earth
Of ancient Tmolus; and the very stones,
Reverberant, din the mellow air with tones
Which the sweet air remembers; and they blend
With fainter echoes, which the mountains fling
From far oracular caverns: so, my Friend,
I cannot choose but sing!

II.

Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be,
Tending their browsing goats amid the broom,
Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea,
Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom,
Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go
Down from their summer pastures -- than the twain
Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top
Sang, emulous, the rival strain!
Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop;
Great Pan ascended from the vales below.
I see them sitting in the silent glow;
I hear the alternating measures flow
From pipe and golden lyre; -- the melody
Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls,
Or when, from out the chambers of the sea,
Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls
A pathway for the sun; then, following swift,
The daedal harmonies of awful caves
Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift
Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves,
With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er
The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain
To follow:
Hark! once more,
How floats the God's exultant strain
In answer to Apollo!

"The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass
Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings."

III.

I cannot separate the minstrels' worth;
Each is alike transcendent and divine.
What were the Day, unless it lighted Earth?
And what were Earth, should Day forget to shine!
But were you here, my Friend, we twain would build
Two altars, on the mountain's sunward side:
There Pan should o'er my sacrifice preside,
And there Apollo your oblation gild.
He is your God, but mine is shaggy Pan;
Yet, as their music no discordance made,
So shall our offerings side by side be laid,
And the same wind the rival incense fan.

IV.

You strain your ear to catch the harmonies
That in some finer region have their birth;
I turn, despairing, from the quest of these,
And seek to learn the native tongue of Earth.
In "Fancy's tropic clime" your castle stands,
A shining miracle of rarest art;
I pitch my tent upon the naked sands,
And the tall palm, that plumes the orient lands,
Can with its beauty satisfy my heart.
You, in your starry trances, breathe the air
Of lost Elysium, pluck the snowy bells
Of lotus and Olympian asphodels,
And bid us their diviner odors share.
I at the threshold of that world have lain,
Gazed on its glory, heard the grand acclaim
Wherewith its trumpets hail the sons of Fame,
And striven its speech to master -- but in vain.
And now I turn, to find a late content
In Nature, making mine her myriad shows;
Better contented with one living rose
Than all the Gods' ambrosia; sternly bent
On wresting from her hand the cup, whence flow
The flavors of her ruddiest life -- the change
Of climes and races -- the unshackled range
Of all experience; -- that my songs may show
The warm red blood that beats in hearts of men,
And those who read them in the festering den
Of cities, may behold the open sky,
And hear the rhythm of the winds that blow,
Instinct with Freedom. Blame me not, that I
Find in the forms of Earth a deeper joy
Than in the dreams which lured me as a boy,
And leave the Heavens, where you are wandering still
With bright Apollo, to converse with Pan;
For, though full soon our courses separate ran,
We, like the Gods, can meet on Tmolus' hill.

V.

There is no jealous rivalry in Song:
I see your altar on the hill-top shine,
And mine is built in shadows of the Pine,
Yet the same worships unto each belong.
Different the Gods, yet one the sacred awe
Their presence brings us, one the reverent heart
Wherewith we honor the immortal law
Of that high inspiration, which is Art.
Take, therefore, Friend! these Voices of the Earth,
The rhythmic records of my life's career,
Humble, perhaps, yet wanting not the worth
Of Truth, and to the heart of Nature near.
Take them, and your acceptance, in the dearth
Of the world's tardy praise, shall make them dear.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net