who wouldst wear the name
Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind,
Thoughts that shall live within the general mind!
Deem not the framing of a deathless
The pastime of a drowsy summer day.
But gather all thy powers,
And them on the verse that thou dost weave,
And in thy lonely hours,
At silent morning or at wakeful eve,
While the tingles through thy veins
Set forth the burning words in fluent strains.
Artfully sought and ordered though it be,
Which the cold rhymer lays
Upon his page with languid industry
Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed,
Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.
The secret wouldst thou know
To touch the heart or fire the blood at will?
Let thine own eyes o'erflow;
Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill;
Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past,
And , the fleet emotion fast.
Then, should thy verse appear
Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought,
Touch the crude line with fear,
Save in the moment of impassioned thought;
Then summon back the original glow and
The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.
Yet let no empty gust
Of passion find an utterance in thy lay,
A blast that whirls the dust
Along the howling street and dies away;
of calm power and mighty sweep,
Like currents journeying through the windless deep.
Seek'st thou, in living lays,
To the beauty of the earth and sky?
Let all that beauty in clear vision lie,
Look on it with exceeding love, and write
The words inspired by wonder and delight.
wouldst thou sing,
Or tell of battles--make thyself a part
Of the great tumult; cling
To the tossed wreck with terror in thy
Scale, with the assault host, the rampart's height
And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.
So shalt thou frame a lay
may endure from age to age,
And they who read shall say;
What witchery hangs upon this poet's page!
What art is this the written spells to find
That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!
For comparison, see Emerson's essay on "The Poet."