Aflush from the far land of song he came
To us;
His harp was strung with fiery threads of flame,
That made his very music luminous.
He touch'd its strings, and as he softly sung,
His eye
Had the divine intelligence that flung
An awe on those who saw it passing by.
His brow was a fit palace for high thoughts,
And far
Visions of splendour, as through cave-like grots
When the sun flashes through them, with no bar
To stop the shafts of light. Upon his lips
There lay
The tremulous feelings, as when sunshine dips
Within the stream that smiles and slips away.
He stood Apollo-like, and grasp'd his song,
Which wore
The impetuous thunder flashing full on wrong,
And lurid lightnings that in swiftness bore
Heaven's message to the earth-dried hearts of men,
Who felt
A new life stirring in them, which again
Around it other higher wisdom dealt.
The deep oracular abyss wherein
Is laid
Truth, with her million bolts that lie within,
Forged on the anvils of the years, and made
Proof to the rust of time, were his to wield.
He flung
Their sharp keen points with God's own signet seal'd,
While the world's confines with their echoes rung.
Men came around him, hailing him as one
Who saw
The clearer uplands of this life, that shun
The nether mist. His word was as a law
Binding them to the right. As priests of old
Gave out
The oracular answers of their gods to hold
The people to their faith. So without doubt
They heard him; for his music, wing'd with fire,
Flew up,
Waving on either side, as in desire
For the far blue of skies. As from a cup
We take the water, so they took his song;
They hail'd
Him as a prophet doing war with wrong—
His voice went everywhere, and still prevail'd.
But as he shaped his song, upon his eyes
And lips
A shadow fell, from out the nether skies,
Which gave birth unto dread; as a fear clips
Footholds for doubt to climb, so those who saw
The change
Began to question, with wild looks of awe,
As the high melody took lower range,
Striking base notes to tickle brutish ears:
Is this
The old music which we held as from the spheres,
Whose harmony was like a flood of bliss,
Drenching our being with a pure delight,
As dew
Drenches the many-colour'd flowers when night
Retires, and all the stars grow dim to view?
He has but fool'd us, singing as in scorn
That we
Should lift ourselves so high up, but to mourn
The unattainable we cannot see,
Or reach! If God had touch'd him with the touch
And strength
To make us better—we had need of such—
To draw us onward—but to turn at length
And blend the poet's holocaustic fire,
Which burns
The earth-growth from the spiritual desire,
With all the lower life that ever spurns
The high pure thought, to wallow in low need,
Were deep
Unutterable shame, to make him bleed
And moan forever in his soul's wild sleep.
But we have lost him. Henceforth unto us
He stands
A veilèd Memnon, no more luminous;
The purer harp-strings broken in his hands:
Snapp'd as in wrath that they should echo tones
Unmeet
To catch the ear, even in wailing moans
For all the change that quench'd their fire and heat.
Shelley kept his wild music wondrous clear;
He bent
His soul in flights of melody, which here
Are with us still, and speaking, as if lent
For an eternity. And others who
Became
Singers have kept their music firm and true
To God's first purpose, singing without shame,
Because they felt their mission. In their band
Is all
The splendour and the fire which, as they stand
Shines on them, as a flood of sunbeams fall
Upon some distant hill. Theirs be the meed
Which song
Gives unto those who wrestle on with deed,
And high endeavour for the end of wrong.
But his! Hereafter when we name his name
And powers
Shall we blush, owning him in very shame
That he was one whose music was not ours?
Well! we have still his early music yet,
The worst
Which follow'd after we can now forget
In the impulses given by the first.
Enough! God knows the time to lift His hand
And take
The veil from off the Memnon, and command
The music to turn purer for His sake.